Letter To Edith

I can't make up my mind whether John Steinbeck was thanking his beloved teacher or telling her she was wrong about not being able to make it to the bigs. The bigs of writing that is. The ability to make it to a world renowned writer. I still admire Steinbeck's admirance of his teacher. Treating writing as a magical formula sure is an interesting way to approach a couple of words put to gether to create one meaning. I also strongly believe that good writing needs to mean something to be epic. If the writing doe not appeal whatsoever to the reader then there is no point in writing the piece. Sometimes I believe that Steinbeck's attention to detail is a magical formula. His figures of speech are one of a kind; his love for writing apparent; the thirst to write more unmatched. My first impression of Steinbeck was a bored writing who didn't want to make good stories. He just wanted to write incredibly descriptive pieces about.... well nothing significant really. Putting description to the side, take a look what is behind the adjectives. There are worlds of symbols. A myriad of different subjects that apply to the real world. Steinbeck was a product of the magical formula that teacher Edith cooked up in her pot. For Edith to say that making it as a writer was not a walk in the park only made John Steinbeck work harder to make it. "hundreds of rejection bills..." Obviously people didn't like his writing at first, but now it's hard to not want to read furhter in his worlds of magic. Still does he thank Edith or is he trying to prove that he made it as an accomplished writer despite not writing the best short stories in his college classes.

Photo Essay

Photo #1 'I always kept 'em together and kept 'em fed..."

Standing by the door is a woman, hands clasped, almost as if she is hopeful that something will take her out of the life she is living. Her journey through life has been etched on her skin. Grey wiry strands of hair dangle loosely covering the back of her neck, brown from the sun. The eyes have seen much suffering. The lack of food, the absence of a job, and the difficulty of raising kids have made her once optimistic mind cold. Life has no mercy when it sees a struggle. Almost like vultures luring around a dying gazelle in the desert heat. Years of labor have taken their toll on her faded clothes. Her nails are broken with grim under their surfaces. The flowers on her dress pattern all the way down to the bottom; the flowers not as colorful as they used to be. The good life seems vague, and still she keeps her hands clasped... hoping that there will be a change in the years to come. Once the light of a better day chooses to settle upon them, there will be time to change the maggot infested door that has open and closed the days of tussle. If only a door opens to let in the splendor of a new beginning.

Photo #2
"We got to have a house when the rains come..." (Boy's point of view)

Ever since my sister was born, this was the only life she was accustomed to. No toys, no beds. Just dirt and broken car axles like the one I found next to the tent. She loves to play with sand. Every mornin' I'll find her crouched over and twiddling her fingers in the dust. Dreaming of princesses and angles keep her play full of fantasy. No such thing have I ever dreamt of. I know the hard times. I know the easy times. My parents work in the fields for thirteen hours a day. In the evenin' we make some supper out of the small share we get from the boss. Nothin' else to eat. It's terrible.... but still my sis keeps playin' in the sand. Cups and bottles are a common thing to find on the ground close to our dwelling. Hut rather. The pillows lie out in the sun every morning to evaporate the sweat from the night before. The heat never goes. Our table and pans are on the other side, can't you see? They don't work very well, but it's better than nothin'! My clothes have been botherin' me too. They're from ma daddy, and they're torn at the knees. I wonder when we'll ever be able to buy new clothes for our family. They get itchy and sweaty. No matter how much we complain, we won't be seeing much new stuff because we just can't afford it. About the tent. Well we made it out of the bed sheets Boss gave to us. They're torn now because of some thieves comin' along with knives. Sometimes the wind will blow them against the branches behind back there. Nasty. Ma momma and daddy always say though, "We'll see better days. All we need to do is keep a smile on our faces and keep a'workin'. Next thing you know it the world will be a better place." Well, I hope their right because I can't take all this ragged lifestyle no more. Besides, I want my sister be able to play with real toys instead of dirt. (She wipes her dirty hands on my back all the time.) No worries. Nothing can get any dirtier when you live in the middle of nowhere.


Photo #3 "The whole thing's nuts. There's work to do and people to do it."

Despite the the endless wood he needs to cut, the middle aged man always bears a smile on his face. Holding his axe for a little rest, he stares off into the distance looking at the beautiful landscape beyond the little lumber village. His muscles itch, and he boots and scuffed. His gloves no doubt have holes from the hours of timeless labor. "The wood's for the Boss!" he exclaims. "Whatever the Boss needs, we get 'im. That's the way things go." The confidence the man's body language displays is unmatched. A natural leader, and well-built man, and a human who accepts the inhumane working conditions. The sun has his skin browned. There's not escaping it. For him, there's no escaping the lasso that his boss has him caught in; a lasso of control. Dealing with hard times is the best thing to do when there's just no way out.

Imitation

She stands in the crammed kitchen with pots and pans ready to be filled with colorful fruits and vegetables for the scrumptious evening meal. The stove is on expelling flames that flicker and lick the bottoms of the pans. The butter already bubbles and the sound fills the air with what seems to be like water coming out of a shower head. As she has done millions of times she slides the knives out of the holsters and starts mechanically slicing the ingredients of the protein filled meal. The vegetables fall neatly into a pile that she picks up in one swoop of the hand and plops into the suddering fury of the pot. Without looking, she slides the knife into the sink turns on the water for a split second and then lays it back down onto the grey-studded white counter. As the knife found it's sliding stop, it was time to set the table. Sure-footed, she wiped her hands on the green apron and stepped into the dining room. From there, the plates were taken out of their nestled corner in the cupboard. Their glazed surfaces flickered in the light of day and warned everyone in the vicinity that they were about to be placed on the glass dinner table. The plates clanged as they were settled onto the table top. Each one in front of a gentle-curved wooden chair. The chairs seemed ready for the routine setting of people as this was always the time when dinner was served. 6:00 sharp or else phones were ringing all over Shekou to find out where the lost family member was dwelling.



The plates were in place, and now the glasses and the utensils. They had their own designated portions of space in the house. The glasses behind a glass sliding door, the forks and knives in a drawer with compartments purposely chosen. The blue holding rack was filled to the brim with eating tools that always found a way to end up of the table and later on the counter ready to be washed. She selected the rights forks, the right knives and placed them in an orderly fashioned manner next to the previously set plates. She stands next to the table; lets out a sigh, scratches her head, looks at the clock, (5:50) and goes back to the desklike storage closet. The glasses clash against each other as she picks them up. A glassy "ting" reverberated through the house just loud enough to shock you in a doze. A pleasant tone still rings through the house as she walks back to the table and precisely sets the glasses about two inches to the right of the plates. Of course they needed to be filled with water later. Just when you think the table is set, place mats come out of a hidden drawer that could be missed even if intense inspection was instigated. Round-shaped and rainbow colored, they bring the needed color into the room after a hard day of work after school. What was yet to come would do more than any other the well placed utensil or accessory can add to the room.

The food was ready and a split second after the cooking alarm rang in all of it's rackety brassness, the pans were off of the now burning hot cooking pits. She walked carefully as to not trip on the nifty doorstep. Her eyes diverted from the ground to the table. She couldn't keep from letting a droplet of sweat run over her wrinkling skin. She set the pans on the placemats and put both of her ring-covered hands on her hips. She lets out a sigh of relief, wipes the sweat of her breath and slowly turns on one toe-nail painted foot to look at the time. 5:59. "Right on time", her body and slight head nod signals to anybody watching. The food that has taken thirty minutes to cook was gone in ten, and the satisfaction in our stomachs sounded. A deep rumble from inside was inevitable. My mother is the best house cook in the world no matter how many loving mothers there are. An hungry human is an angry human, and nobody is angry after they have eaten at the Riemens' knowing that the best of care was taken to prepare the luscious recipes that we all love. Job well done. As the sun settles into the pocket of the distant land, she knows she needs to go through the routine once more. The setting of the table, and the cooking of the food. No frustration can be found however, because I know she loves to do it.