My Sweetheart

Jolynn Jennings

3^rd hour

12-16-10

Object Paper

My Sweetheart

           

            My sweetheart may not be much of a looker, but I love him anyway. His scarred, frail frame looks as if it will fall apart at any minute. He originates from Japan, but no one would guess when looking at him, for he wears skin of white. Americans love his kind, but turn away from him as he drives down the street.

            His worn out shoes and harsh voice reveal his true age and he requires special treatment from time to time. His overhauled, replaced and rebuilt parts help reinforce him, but he is dying inside. He takes ages to warm up in the morning and he groans when I try to move him too quickly. He wobbles and wanders; my small arms seem barely strong enough to keep him steady. He owes these health problems to his ghastly drinking habits, which only get worse with age. Most with his age and condition would be sleeping in the bone yard by now, but somehow he manages to keep moving forward.

            He doesn’t work with the same vigor as he did in his youth, but he gets the job done just as well. He doesn’t move with the “get-up-and-go” like he used to. In his prime he plowed through any job with the strength of a hundred horses.

            Some may wonder why I stay so faithful to the old beater, but I have my reasons. He never fails to get me where I need to go. We manage to make it out of every rut we come across. The rough ride brings about occasional pain, but at least we can keep moving forward with no regrets. He always protects me from the harsh elements and he helps me easily review the life that speeds behind be. Our memories together would make a beautiful love story.

            I know my sweetheart may not last much longer, but I will hold faithful to the end. I’ll be sad when my good old truck dies, but I will surely find another that I like.

Big Scar, Little Scar

Everybody is writing about their scars...why? Did I miss a day that Carter offered extra credit for writing about scars? Probably, so I am going to write about mine even though I most likely won't get extra credit for it.

My family moved to our new house outside of Cleveland the summer before sixth grade, June of 2005 to be exact! We moved right into a HUGE mess. Junk everywhere!

 One day while we were cleaning up some of the mess in our yard, my brother came across a medium sized metal boat. Justin called my dad over to check it out and my dad suggested that we float it down the canal. My sister and I got excited about it so my dad allowed us to quit working for the day and we got to work fixing up this boat. We took it too my dad's shop on the other side of town and patched up all the holes we could see. While the patch glue stuff dried my dad loaded some panels in the back of the truck to haul to the house.

My siblings and I rode in the back of the truck on the way over. When we got to the house I went to hop over the side of the truck. While in the process, my foot got stuck in the panels and I fell out right on my head. I sat up and felt something fall from my head, thinking it was a bunch of little rocks that got stuck to my face. I reached up to brush the rocks off my face and when I looked at my hand it was covered in blood. Then I started to cry. My dad came over, cleaned me up, and stuck a butterfly band-aid on my eyebrow then put me back in the truck and rushed me to the clinic. That was the first time I ever got stitches and I sure hope it is the last. The worst part about the whole thing was that I had to get a Tetanus shot. Ow!

When I got home I still wanted to float down the canal in the boat we fixed up. So my dad loaded up the boat and we all drove down to the canal - I sat in the front of the truck - and floated our little boat for the rest of the day. I now have a small pink scar that runs through my right eyebrow. My eyebrow never completely grew back in where the scar is so it looks like I did a bad job plucking my eyebrow. Ah well, that's just life I guess.

My big scar is much more recent, much more painful, and much scarier. Last easter, my family went out to The Reef with Weston's family. We all had motorcycles and four wheelers and went riding about every day. One day we were out for a ride on this road that occasionally crossed the wash. I was on my motorcycle behind Weston's dad where a part of the trail had been washed out. I hit a rock and slid off the road into a deep hole and caught my pants on some brush on the way down. It ripped my pants open on my right thigh. Weston had to help me get my bike out of the hole and get me back on the trail. We finally got my bike running and then headed on our way.

When we got back onto the main dirt road, I let my brother pass me so I could ride in the back of the pack and drive a bit slower for a while. All of the bikes were in a single file line going about 30 miles an hour. As I watched my brother I noticed that he had hit a washboard section of the road so I slid more to the middle so I wouldn't have to ride through it too. The next thing I knew, Justin was on the ground and rolled right in front of me. I didn't have time to swerve or brake, so I ended driving right over the top of him. I was so scared that I slammed on the brakes, letting the bike slide sideways with my right leg underneath the bike. I ran over to help my brother and make sure he was ok. He had the wind squished out of him so I helped him get his helmet and chest protector off so he could breath. About that time I noticed some pain in my right leg. I looked down to where I had previously ripped my pants and found a huge gash about 5 inches long and my pants were ripped even more.

I now have a thick dark scar on my leg from that experience, that I have shown off to the volleyball team, since the only time you can see it is when I wear my spandex. It was quite a scary experience running over my brother and I am sure glad I was hurt more than he was.

Reaching the Light

My first writing influence came at an early age. By the time I was three, I could spell my name out loud and read it on all of my Christmas gifts. I remember wanting to be able to write my name and learn the alphabet at a young age, some time before starting pre school...so my mom taught me. I wanted to write everyone’s name! I loved to write! I would write letters to uncles on missions, an aunt who was enlisted in the Navy, and to young cousins that I never got to see. Writing was a positive thing back then. I was young and careless. My writing was for pure enjoyment. My mom encouraged me to write and was so proud of me.




I remember wanting to be an author in Elementary School. Elementary School is great for young writers. No one really criticizes you; the teachers’ focus is on teaching you spelling and proper grammar, and no matter what you write everyone thinks you are cute. We were little kids with big dreams and clever imaginations.


I would say the first negative influence on me as a writer would be my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Dingman. He seemed to put a damper on my spirits and made me feel rather afraid of putting my earnest thoughts in my writing. I swear he was never a child, the way he pushed us out of our imaginary worlds, forcing us into the “Real” world, a place where we had to begin to think like adults rather that children. This affected me because I have such a great love for fantasy and had never felt accepted in the real world – as a writer that is. No one ever seems to understand me. I feel like I think so differently from the rest of the world. As I aged, I began to enjoy writing less and less. Writing became too serious and became more of a chore than anything else. It all had to be backed up by facts and research, trying to prove points and being criticized when the teacher didn’t agree with your opinions or told you your reasons weren’t good enough. I was afraid to write what I really felt, not wanting to be judged for my lack of powerful writing skills.


By the eighth grade I developed a passion for poetry and music. This was how I chose to enjoy writing. I wasn’t extremely poetic myself, but my dad and granddad were lovely poets who made me want to continue to write. I’m not amazing at writing poetry, but I love to memorize it. I love the really deep stuff, but I also enjoy the simple, silly poems that serve no purpose other than to entertain. I love the ones that get stuck in your head and make you giggle every time you remember part of it. My favorites include “Ladies and Gentle Beans,” author unknown, and “Five Gallon Buckets,” by Sherrie Stoll. Any of my close friends could recall a time when I recited one of them.


The third type of writing I love is what I like to call “free writing.” What I do is take a notebook and pen with me to public places and write down everything that I think and hear. It amazes me how much my brain takes in and what words I remember in a conversation that I’m not completely focused on. “Free writing” can teach you about yourself. The things you write are never a complete sentence or idea, but it is always surprising to see what you get out of the mess. You find certain messages that reoccur throughout the page. Things you didn’t even realize you were paying such close attention to. It always interests me to see where my mind is actually focused.


When I write, I am most comfortable on the floor. I also like to sit in a chair with my feet hanging over one of the arms. I have to be comfortable and relaxed to write well and I do better when there is music or some kind of noise in the background. I struggle with silence. Music sets a mood and other commotions paint a picture and create a comfortable atmosphere for me to write in. I like to eat or chew gum while I write. I have found that I focus better when I have to multitask. I prefer writing late at night. I am the most awake in the hours that follow midnight. I love listening to the sound of crickets and coyotes through my open window in the early hours. I prefer writing in ink. I like to scribble out my mistakes because when I do I can see that I am making changes and improving my writing as I go. I am the kind of person who gets ideas early on, then waits to write the paper the night before it is due. I write it in my head as I go because I don’t like to rewrite anything or make several copies before writing the final draft. Even when I write a rough draft I always go straight from memory while rewriting my final...so I guess my reasoning behind all of this is that I don’t like to waste my time writing something down when I know I am going to change it anyway.


I don’t write in a journal regularly. My personal writing goes as far as what I have previously mentioned. I love to write letters to my best friend Olivia though. That is our way of journaling. We regularly write letters back and forth between each other, mostly telling of our lives, but sometimes we emerge ourselves in philosophical debates, which has become a favorite pass time between us. I have learned to like writing for an audience. I put more thought into my writing when I write for others and the feedback from friends and teachers is always so helpful.


The things I feel that poor writers don’t know is how to enjoy their own writing. If a writer doesn’t enjoy their own writing, then they tend to become lax and bored with their writing. If writers can learn to enjoy their writing and feel good about what they have written, then they will write better and it will be more enjoyable for the reader. The things that I think will help writers are also things that I feel I need to work on. To become a better writer I need to feel like what I am writing about serves a purpose, whether it is to make someone see my way of thinking or just to entertain the reader. I need to work on catching and keeping the reader’s attention and to make them agree with what I have written. If I can learn to do these things then I believe I can become a better writer.


All these influences in my life have made me a better writer. They have changed my thoughts and feelings about writing. What I learned from these experiences has enlightened me as a writer. As I am making progress towards the light, my hope is that one day I will reach the sun and be able to hold it up for the rest of the world to behold.