Good Prose

Meek or bold, a good beginning achieves clarity. A sensible line threads through the prose; things follow one another with literal logic or with the logic of feeling. Clarity isn't an exciting virtue, but it is a virtue always, and especially at the beginning of a piece of prose ... With good writing, the reader enjoys a doubleness of experience, succumbing to the story or the ideas while also enjoying the writer's artfulness.

- Tracey Kidder [Good Prose: The Art of Nonfiction]

I perused the opening pages of Kidder's book in the midst of my campus' bookstore. His advice is at once succinct and eloquent. I succumbed to his ideas.

I added Good Prose to my reading list. As I continue to hone my writing skills, I am seeking to clarify my ideas in order to effectively convey meaning to my audience. I am learning that brevity does not always correlate to clarity. And as poetic as descriptive prose may sound, I must take care not to burden my readers with baroque passages. My mother's mantra reminds me to "simplify." 

Eyes of Blue

We tied the knot on the tenth day of the tenth month in the year 2010. That October day was wonder-filled, resplendent, with golden leaves fluttering down through the trees. The day I married John. Perhaps it is our laid-back approach to life, our easy-going personalities, or the fact that our love has swelled rather than diminished over the years. Whatever the reason, my husband and I are blissfully happy together, content, and the closest of companions. I count him as my best friend.

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Gentle and strong, John towers over me, measuring six feet two inches in height and weighing in around two fifteen, a good head and shoulders above me when we stand side by side. He works with his hands, in carpentry, a contractor by trade, mechanic on the side. Those hands resemble baseball mitts, rounded fingertips, stubby, with calloused palms. Capable and hard-working, he is honest in his dealings. His eyes are steady, blue as sapphires, with flecks of gold; occasionally, those bright blue eyes twinkle when he looks at me. He is not an eloquent speaker, yet he is measured, thoughtful. He knows the wisdom of silences and pauses. John is his mother's favorite son without being a mamma's boy - she raised sixteen children, and he still holds a special place in her heart. Loved by all, his nature is giving and generous, laid back. He has not been jaded by the world. He has not lost his sense of wonder. 

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"Don't look for a man you can see yourself living with, but look for the man that you can't imagine living without." I heard those words of wisdom from my father, advice to a young eighteen year old me. I never dated anyone in high school. And I wasn't looking for anyone when I graduated. I determined that I did not want to get involved with anyone if we weren't going to seriously pursue a relationship. No casual dating. I had seen too many broken hearts in high school. My dad's words sank in, rung true. I didn't want to settle.

     

I had just met John that summer, back in 2008. He wasn't on my radar. But I was on his. From our first encounter, I unwittingly stirred something deep within his heart. And so he waited. He bided his time. John stuck around for two years, slowly becoming my friend. It wasn't in his nature to push me too early, before I was ready. As time went by, as I became acquainted with his person and character, he became my genuine friend. In two years' time, John became the one that I couldn't see myself living without.

Iridescence

Stumbled across this quote while reading through Wendelin Van Draanen's beautiful work, Flipped. Reminded me of some of the individuals I have encountered, people who shimmer with an iridescent sheen. These rare individuals are unique gems, stand out from the crowd, and their very presence is a joy. Today, I thank God for these people. I believe that they are a direct reflection of Him.

Snatches of Summer, Snapshots, & Switchbacks

 

Spontaneity is the spice of life. It adds dashes of flavor, dabs of color, and seasons our journey with unexpected, unanticipated surprises. Our summer has been peppered with spontaneous encounters, reunions on rooftops, fond farewells, disheartening discoveries, and the recurring revelation of the goodness of God in the land of the living.

We kickstarted our summer by traveling down to Daytona Beach in Florida with our friends and family: Sim, Erin, John and Nikki. Three sets of couples vacationing together. Perhaps we are trendsetters, as we were informed that it is an oddity for couples to vacation in groups. Upon hearing that we drove down together in a minivan, certain persons had the audacity to ask if we all shared the same hotel room to cut our costs. A grossly distasteful comment, someone's weak attempt to appear clever.

Our counter-cultural venture was laid back, as we alternated group activities with quiet couple strolls along the beach. We enjoyed fellowshipping over a delicious meal at a local crabshack on the pier, played a competitive game of putt-putt after nightfall in the cool of the evening, and on rainy days, we gathered and played cribbage and Spouseology together. We visited the St. Augustine Lighthouse, the guys boogey boarded in the ocean, and I collected a few interesting shells that washed up on the sand, reveling in the warmth as the waves lapped at my ankles. It was a leisurely vacation.

Upon our return home, we discovered that our house had been burglarized during our absence. Our bedroom window was bashed in, and shards of glass lay on our comforter, nightstand, and carpet, punctuated by spots of blood. The tranquility of Xenia had been shattered by the presence of an intruder. Exhausted from the long drive, dazed from the disheartening discovery, we reported the burglary to the police and awaited the officer's arrival. As we assessed the damage, we were surprised by how much of our property had been left behind, untouched. All things considered, we were fortunate. We were safe, and most of our valuable possessions were still under our roof. We surmised that a little person, an inexperienced burglarer, heard wind of our departure and took only what he could carry, explaining the almost haphazard selection of the stolen goods. This suspicion was confirmed a month later, when the culprit confessed everything to us. In light of a full confession and an agreement to work off the damages, we dropped the charges. We hope and pray that the change of heart and our forgiveness will impact this life, showing a reflection of Christ and His gift of grace.

Another unexpected development occurred when my dear childhood friend Abby Drew announced that she would be moving down to Atlanta. Through the years, we've always been there for each other, have traveled the world together, had heart-to-heart's over steaming mugs of coffee and tea, laughed, reveled, and processed together. She's a true blue, first rate kindred spirit, one who encourages and shares insights. Plutarch spoke words of wisdom when he stated that "A constant friend is a thing rare and hard to find." I think of Abby when I consider his assessment. She is setting off on a grand adventure, a journey of no regrets, and though her leaving will be bittersweet, I know that our friendship will be all the richer for it. We kept in touch while I was in the Philippines, so the distance of Georgia is not insurmountable. This season of our lives will challenge and deepen our friendship, and I look forward to the years ahead. Godspeed, Abby Drew. 

Prior to her departure, Abby helped organized a rooftop reunion in honor of our mutual friend Abigail Elaine's 23rd birthday. It was a lovely evening in a beautiful setting, and the clouds that threatened to storm held back their bounty. The skyline of Indianapolis was gorgeous, illuminated by the fading light of sunset. Good conversation abounded as old friends and acquaintances reunited. 

To wrap up the adventures of summer, John climbed the summit of Mt. Whitney in California. He declares that it was the most grueling endeavor of his entire life, and the journey may well be his first and last venture to the top of the highest mountain in the continental US. His father made the trek when he was 17, and desired to make a second trip up with his sons. The momentous five day hike had been in the works for some time, and much preparation and thought went into the culmination of the image below. The backpacks were selected with care, the contents were weighed, ounce-age was maximized, and equipment was researched by the members of the father - son team. 

Much of our summer was dedicated to preparing for the climb. Sodas and sweeties were eliminated from John's diet, and he began to outfit for the trip. A mere 6 days from their scheduled flight to California, John and I were fulfilling the rest of his packing list, running errands and selecting the final items for his trip. He had just gotten his pack fitted at R.E.I that afternoon, and had placed it in the backseat of our tiny red Civic as we stopped into our last two stores for the day. And then the unthinkable: someone broke into our car and stole his pack and my purse. As the realization sunk in, a heavy despairing ache pulled at me from the inside of my soul. Not again. I immediately began to chastise my stupidity. Yet there was nothing to do. No amount of conjuring could bring our property back to us. After reporting our loss to 911, we met with officer Wes, deflated. Cancelled our cards. Hoped against hope that we could recoup our losses. Came to grips with the cold hard facts. It was gone. 

We were safe. Our purchases were still in their bags. And over the course of the next couple of days, John bought a new sleeping bag, bear keg, replenished his food supplies, and found an Osprey backpack on Craigslist. When the day of departure arrived, John was outfitted, prepared for the journey to Whitney. As you can see from the image, he persevered and scaled the summit of the mountain. John was in California for ten days, our longest separation since our wedding day. I was overjoyed to see him when he returned home to me.

I start my junior year at IUPUI this Monday, beginning an internship class with the University Writing Center. As I further my education, I am excited to discover opportunities to implement my English degree, spreading a love for writing and literacy. John continues to work independently as a contractor, and hopes to invest more time in flipping cars, his hobby. 

Xenia has hosted many a traveler under her roof. We were delighted to encounter our dear friends Ian and Rose Penwell yesterday, surprising them in Fortville, Indiana, by dropping by on their lunch break where they were teaching a seminar at a local Christian church. Their astonished faces were priceless - I've never seen Ian so surprised in my life. We insisted they stay with us that night. We all went on a stroll around the Indianapolis canal, polishing off our evening by dropping into Sahm's Tavern for a slice of their signature sour cream coffee cake. As we swapped stories and reminisced about our days in Olongapo, I thanked God for these spontaneous encounters and for the gift of friendship. As my Dad so often reminds me, people are more important than things.

Earnestly

Celebrating fatherhood - To my beloved dad, who taught me how to ride my bike without the aid of training wheels, gave me underdogs and slambollas. Who emphasized the truth that people are more important than things. The man who reads me like a book, even when I believe that I am being cryptic. You set such a wonderful example for me, living out what you believe, and have been a committed father, balancing discipline with love. You have trained me up in the way that I should go, and I have not departed from the path. Your earnest love for mom is beautiful and strong, and your marriage union is a testimony to your steadfast love and commitment. On this day, I honor, respect, and am grateful for your love and support. Always your loving daughter, Kelsey Lorraine. 

Dear Domesticity

In honor of Mother's Day:

You were the one who taught me how to read my first words, opening the gateway into other worlds for me to explore. You fostered my love of books, teaching me how to read well. You also taught me how to persevere, to never give up, even when things get hard. I learned that life is not always easy, but Christ is our anchor when the storms get rough. Thank you for showing me how to honor my husband, by giving me such a wunnerful example, for you live out your love and commitment. You have always supported me, and you under gird me even now. You taught me how to be hospitable, and that hosting and generosity are practical outpourings of our love for people. We are never too old to chase after fireflies, and gardening is good for the soul, teaching us to hope in tomorrow. Coffee and afternoon tea are good for what ails you, and wisdom comes with age. You are surrounded by love, and I love you ever so muchly, my dear, bibliophile mother.

Always your loving daughter, Kels

Culture and Coffee Grounds

My spring semester just ended, and I find myself with loads of free time. What a pleasure it has been to take advantage of the gorgeous spring weather, landscaping and gardening my bit of earth, seeing my flowers bloom in their resplendent colors. John and I have gone on lovely drives, picnics, and have been working on house projects together. Our little Xenia is getting to the point where we can add finishing touches, and we are quite content to rest in our home.

The following piece is one that I am sharing from one of my college classes, entitled "Cultural Literacies: Protean Shapes and Coffee Grounds." I hope you enjoy it:

It was a typical fall morning, with a brisk tinge in the air that caused me to shiver when I breathed in too deeply. A bit reluctantly, I pulled my hand out of its warm nestling place in my coat pocket and made a grab for the door. The warm aroma of coffee grounds greeted me. In passing, I noticed a new window cling on the glass announcing the arrival of the Pumpkin Spice Latte, ushering the change of season. Out of habit, I glanced up at the menu boards, even though I had already decided on what I wanted to order. An array of the offered drink categories marched across my vision, formed in neat, orderly rows: Frappechino, Exprosso, Brewed Coffee, Tazo Teas, Hot Chocolate, Iced Coffee or Tea, Smoothies. 

"May I help you?" The barista's inquiry interrupted my train of thought. Smiling, I walked up to the counter and placed my order for a grande White Chocolate Mocha. My total was displayed on her register screen, but she announced it to me as well. After my transaction was complete, I surveyed the room for a place to sit down. As I skimmed the back corner with the comfy red chairs, I recognized two familiar faces. My sister-in-law Sarah and a mutual friend of ours occupied the desirable cushioned chairs, and they were conversing over coffee and chai. I interrupted them and the three of us exchanged greetings. Historic Irvington is a small town and the Starbucks is located at the heart of it, making the coffee shop an ideal hangout spot.

The song Lean on Me was playing quietly, providing ambient music. "That is the third time that song has played since we got here this morning," Sarah informed me, "And I am tempted to just go and stand on one of these tables and bust into song!" Sarah is like that, spontaneous and fun loving, and it would not have surprised me in the least if she made good on her word.

One of the baristas called out my order, and I took my leave of Sarah and our friend Chrystal. My hands clasped the warm surface of the coffee cup, and I breathed in the wafting creamy sweetness of the brew. I slid into a wooden chair at an empty table for two, sipped on my mocha, and observed my fellow customers. A group of seven young women were quietly conducting a Bible study at one of the larger tables. They were discussing John chapter 15, and each participant had brought along her personal Bible and a small notebook. I wondered if they met here every Sunday morning.

In the table next to theirs sat a man, alone with his laptop and iPhone. He was seemingly oblivious to everything else around him, concentrated on his screen and plugged into his earbuds, which were connected to his iPhone. His sole interruption occurred when he received a phone call, which caused him to pull out the earbuds. After a brief conversation, he reinserted the buds and devoted his attention to the computer screen.

Another single man was situated at the table next to mine, and he, too, had a laptop set upon the round table. As he got up to retrieve his iced soy latte, served not in a disposable cup but in his personal plastic mug, he glanced down at my scribbles. "Beautiful handwriting; perfect handwriting..." he said as he brushed by my table. Having obtained his mug of iced coffee, he settled into his seat and proceeded to find an outlet along the wall. When he had accomplished his task, he began to interact with the Internet. After a time, he noticed an acquaintance of his standing in line, and he called out to her. She turned, headed over to his little table, and the two of them began to converse. He disregarded his laptop to focus his attention on his impromptu visitor, and he mentioned how he routinely grabs his Starbucks coffee every Sunday morning and reads the New York Times. As she headed off to her church service, he bid her farewell. "Say a little prayer for me."

I nursed my coffee in silence, musing. A rack of newspapers sat untouched in the front corner of the shop, available for purchase or perusing, but none of the customers paid it any heed. They had their laptops, and what need did they have of crumply, inky papers? My sweeping glanced paused momentarily upon a metal bin of complementary coffee grounds, 'grounds for the garden.' I wondered how many people took advantage of the garden grounds, and recalled when I did. That was another time and place.

It was for Jason and Theresa's garden, the one on the mountainside in Olongapo. They were our neighbors in the Philippines, when John and I lived in a one-room bamboo hut with a grass roof. John, my husband of two years, would take me on special dates to Starbucks, perhaps once or twice a month. We said it was for the coffee, yet we both knew it was for the luxury of the green comfy couches. Knowing that we were heading into Subic Bay for our coffee date, Jason and Theresa would ask us to bring home the garden grounds for their herb and vegetable garden terraces. We always obliged.

There was a distinct clientele at the Subic Starbucks. For the average Filipino, a cup of coffee from Starbucks was a full day's wage, a luxury they could not afford. Only the upper and middle class citizens frequented the coffee shop. Tourists flocked to the Subic Starbucks, giving it an international atmosphere. During our visits I noted Korean, Japanese, Canadian, British, American, Australian, and even German customers. The baristas were bilingual, speaking both Tagalog - their native tongue - and English.

While English was the commonly spoken language, the clientele had varying degrees of English literacy. The menu, mounted on the wall, was practically identical to the in the Irvington Starbucks and was printed in English, but located on the counter was a visual cheat sheet. It was merely a laminated square with a grid of images featuring the most popular frappechino and iced drinks, with names for each printed just below the picture. Due to the humid climate, chilled drinks were the best sellers at the Subic Starbucks. This visual image grid simplified the ordering process for the customer base, whose literacy backgrounds were very diverse.

I took another sip of my now lukewarm coffee, fluctuating between past and present. I distinctly remembered the month of December, leading up to Christmas, how the Subic Starbucks played the classic tune I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm to put us in the festive mood. When I glanced out the window, I saw palm trees thriving in the 85-degree weather, and pedestrians walking around in shorts and tee shirts. No amount of Christmas music would produce Irving Berlin's idea of a white Christmas - not in Subic Bay.

It was very different there, and yet familiar at the same time. Glancing up from my reverie, I saw yet another familiar face. His eyes were smiling at me, and he swooped in for a kiss. Carrying on the tradition, John was meeting me for coffee.

In the words of Shirley Brice Heath, renowned ethnographic researcher and professor of linguistics and English at Stanford University, a literacy event is "any occasion in which a piece of writing is integral to the nature of the participants' interactions and their interpretive processes" (371). In this short story, I focused on the different ways that writing is integrated into the Irvington Starbucks and contrasted it with another Starbucks located in the Philippines. Both coffee shops display their products on a mounted menu, printed in English text. Due to their international customer base in Subic Bay, Starbucks created a special menu in addition to the one on the wall, a picture grid, for their more diverse clientele. This catered to their unique blend of literacies and helped the bilingual baristas to better serve their customers.

The Filipinos and the international tourists in Subic Bay were literate, upper class individuals, and many of them were literate in more than one language, at least to some degree. And for those who were less literate in English, a visual form of literacy was invented to convey meaning. Heath observed, "The information to be gained from any prolonged look at oral and written uses of language through literacy events may enable us to accept the protean shapes of oral and literate traditions and language, and move us away from current tendencies to classify communities as being at one or another point along a hypothetical continuum which has no social reality" (391).

The literacies witnessed in the Irvington coffee shop were oral, written, technological, and in the case of the Bible study, the participants negotiated meaning from the written texts. I noted how most of the customers preferred to access the newspaper online rather than reading the tangible papers located on the rack in the corner. Linguist Dennis Baron predicted this growing trend - a preference for digital pixels over paper and ink - in his essay "From Pencils to Pixels: The Stages of Literacy Technologies." Back in 1999, when his essay was published, Baron observed, "Futurologists write books predicting that computers will replace books. Newspapers rush to hook online subscribers. The New York Times will download the Sunday crossword puzzle, time me as I fill in the answers from my keyboard, even score my results. They'll worry later about how to get me to pay for this service" (423). He noted how electronic texts were less credible than conventional print, and stated that: "In order to gain acceptance, a new literacy technology must also develop a means of authenticating itself" (Baron 429).

The events described in this composition are true, though I broke up the sequential order to improve the flow of the narrative. I played the part of the observer while jotting down my field notes in the Irvington Starbucks. The alluded to memories of Subic Bay and Olongapo are also true, as my husband John and I were residents there for nine months. We frequented the Starbucks, and the excerpts included in the short story were taken from actual events.

Literacies are all around us, and as Baron stated, "we live in an environment that is increasingly surrounded by text" (439). The nature of literacy is ever shifting, but the underlying meaning is the same. Our interaction with text shapes our understanding of meaning, and our understanding of meaning shapes our world.

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Works Cited

 Baron, Dennis. "From Pencils to Pixels: The Stages of Literacy Technologies." Wardle and Downs 

             423-440.

Heath, Shirley Brice. "Protean Shapes in Literacy Events: Ever-Shifting Oral and Literate 

             Traditions."Wardle and Downs 368-393.

Wardle, Elizabeth and Doug Downs. Writing About Writing: A College Reader. Bedford: St. 

             Martin's, 2011. Print.