Young Writers Society

Hello YWS!

It's been a few weeks (oh, alright more than a month) as I've been bogged down with college work (and work and work). But I promise an honest critique over the weekend to anyone who's willing to give their honest opinions on an essay I've written for a writing class. I really never preface my work, but I have a few requests with this one, as I'm not only looking for opinions on the work, but the very nature of the work. Everything I've written recently is essentially non-fiction, but I'm going for a little different feel with this one-

It also will become longer, I hope, so please pay some attention to what I'm missing here.

Enjoy.

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A House, A Home

A plain white farm house. A soft valley ringed by hills that maintain the difference between privacy and isolation. A treehouse precariously clinging to a tree that precariously clings to the earth. A pond, of course. A small grey barn filled with kayaks, a dartboard, and the awkward ghost of the trampoline which disappeared - stolen, surely, but how? - one winter.

This is the home of family friends, the destination for countless summer weekends and the place where we have always gone to toast the coming year. The house is upstate New York, but not too upstate. Any farther north, and you can’t get the Yankee game, good coffee, or a crisp copy of the Times.

There was last summer, as I am lying in a hammock hung between two trees in the middle of the field, and looking out onto the eighth green. As I watch, the worn red flag marking the cup location bends slightly in the breeze, inviting me to play a round.

The golf course is Basil’s pride and joy. An older man who lives alone and owns part of the valley, Basil rarely golfs, but takes pride in maintaining the fairways, raking the traps, and changing the position of the hole.

Basil’s exploits are a private legend. There are land documents inscribed with surreal legal language (… insofar as the 6th tee remains putting distance from the aforementioned parcel as well as Town Road 12A…) that he keeps in a silver box below his revolver. There was once a meddlesome squirrel that Basil battled with for a summer, before capturing it and paroling it in Dutchess County. And, of course, the course.

Basil was invited to dinner but declined politely.

When I climb out of the hammock, it is because the wind has told me that dinner is ready. I thread through the narrow path in the field, barefoot, with my sneakers clutched in my hand, making my way to the freshly cleaned picnic table that stands on the edge of the lawn. My family is grouped around it, as are our hosts, the owners. The table is decorated with the results of a subscription to The New Yorker. Here is the thin tomato soup with the dollop of mango relish. Here is the roasted pork loin coated in brown sugar glaze. Here is the salad of light greens tossed with caramelized pecans and rosemary vinaigrette. Would you like some?

Would I ever!

The food is passed around, and the comments are exchanged. Even out of the city, New Yorkers cannot help but make comments. When you are in close contact with 7 million people, it is hardwired into your brain that you must express your opinions clearly, loudly, and often. We love to call 311 and report unsafe building conditions. We love to call WFAN and crucify a Steinbrenner. New York is always brimming with comments. New York, we think, is a giant commercial for Sprint mobile phones- beep-beep-beep and things get done.

The pork and the salad are received well. The soup is a miss, but an interesting miss. There’s lemonade which is difficult to screw up, and there’s goopy ice cream that the machine didn’t freeze all the way, but is delicious anyway. Everyone leans back and compliments the weather. But there’s not so much to say. It’s perfect.

The spring before the summer, I am lying in bed in a small ante-room off the guest bedroom. There are a pair of secret stairs in this house, and one leads to this bedroom. The house creaks when I cross the frigid floor, as any old house must.

There is a stunning storm outside. The lightning is perpetual and I do not need a lamp to get into bed. The rain thrashes off the window pane, and enthralls me into staying awake. My bed is warm, and the covers are tight.

These things are inexorably linked. A farm and a city. A hammock and a table. Peace does not matter without knowledge of war. It is worth fording a swollen river in bitter cold if only to feel the ecstasy of a pair of woolen socks. So too, does the tumult of a storm without enforce a sublime comfort and warmth within.

At the dawn of the new year - the year with the spring and the summer to come - my family is at the house once again. The dinner lies, warmly appraised and eaten, on the dining room table. Here are the leftovers of the chick peas with the lentils, and the hot spice drizzle. Here is the remaining crisp cold carrot salad. Here is the empty bottle of sparkling cider. There is the first of the champagne, being opened.

We have just returned from our annual round of bowling. Like most good traditions, nobody remembers quite how it started. But it just happens.

This is the year that I have gotten the largest bowling shoes, but my dad has won both rounds again. His bowling is a character study- straight, methodical, and precise, with consistent results. My bowling is similar, but delivered harder, and with a tendency to glance off to a side and miss the head pin. I get the most strikes and the most threes. My sister uses the guardrails. As we get back to the house, I always mention that the guardrails are a form of cheating.

When we come back in our boots sprinkled with snow. The old black wood burning stove is burning away, and the food is still steaming. The snow melts in the hallway, and dries off of the wooden floor.

Nebraska is beating someone else in a bowl game named after some company that sells credit cards. Or something. For complicated reasons, we’re all rooting for Nebraska.

I only ever have one real resolution. By the end of the year, I would like to be a better person. That’s the most I can ever hope for. But there’s one resolution that I am confident in. I will come back.

Some places aren’t just the kind of places can just point to on a map. You might trace the progressively smaller roads with your finger, and then stop, hovering. Here, you may say, here’s the house. But then- here’s the pond, here’s the barn. Here’s the roads we take every new years to go bowling. And here’s the two leaning trees, alone in the field, looking for company.

Here, the trees say, we’ve set up a hammock.