personal essay

It needs work.

It's more or less what I want to say, but hardly the mood or attitude that i want to convey. I wanted to tell the story and get down everything I had to say, and I definately accomplished that. I already axed a few paragraphs that i felt were not really neccesary in a piece of this length.

Mainly I would like to concentrate on editing to keep the reader more interested, I feel as if it's easy to just stop reading this piece as it sits.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. My sister Grace and I sat in the back of our family’s Plymouth Minivan, as I did my best to consol her as she hugged her favorite stuffed animals. My dad sat in the drivers seat, sighing heavily and swearing under his breath as my mother stormed around the abandoned Elk’s Lodge parking lot. The dim glow of the Marathon gas station sign on the corner and the dash lights of the van were all that separated us from the rainy, cold fall night. What can I say, we were a happy family.
It seemed as if this sort of event happened at least monthly. My parents argued constantly for causes that were often beyond my comprehension. For some reason this type of conflict seemed to happen more often than any other and usually at the most inappropriate times. Often trouble would brew between my parents on our five hour trip to northern Michigan where we had a second home, leading to the eventual all-out parking lot brawl between my incredibly frustrated dad and my crying, out of control mom. Regardless, it always happened right in the middle of what should have been a happy, joyous event for any other family.
To me it was annoying, but at the same time I really didn’t care much. It was more a frustration for me at this point. When I was younger I would cry and beg them to stop fighting, but it was no use. As a result, I found myself becoming numb to the incessant fighting and troubles the family had a young age. I told myself “it isn’t my problem,” and looking back, in certain cases I even provoked it. I remember crying surprisingly little considering all that happened.
Grace, on the other hand, handled the situation completely different. She refused to admit that our family was in trouble and held hope that there could be reconciliation down the road at some point. As soon as they started fighting, she just wanted it to stop, which I completely understand. She knew that they fought and seemed to be ok with it, but just wanted to have no part in it. In a way, she subscribed to the school of thought saying “out of sight, out of mind.” This is not to say the way she handled the situation was any worse or better than the way I went about it, but should simply be considered an indication of how we handled the family’s problems differently.
My father and I have always gotten along great, although in a way that differs greatly from the traditional father-son relationship. I always thought of him as my best friend. I hold the utmost respect for him and he shows me the same. He has always told me I can do anything, and supports me in everything and all of the decisions I have made. He is an amazing guy and everyone loves him, from his employees and tenants to his friends and family. My mom always told me that she didn’t even consider him a father to me. She would gripe, “He doesn’t set guidelines or rules for you!” I guess in a way she was right, he didn’t set traditional guidelines for me or tell me what to do. He gave me the chance to grow and mature at my own speed. This isn’t to say that he gave me free reign. I could tell when he was disappointed in me and this meant more than any punishment or lecture ever could.
One aspect of my father and my relationship that always struck me as odd is the frequency of which he would share stories of his troubles of my mother with me. He would come to me often and share the outcome of their latest argument, often asking me, “Am I out of line here?” Although I often agreed with him and his arguments, I never meant to take sides.
I’ve never gotten along well with my mom. I understand that nearly every kid has rough times with his or her parents, but this was far more than that. We had little in common and had very different outlooks on life. One of my finest memories of her consists of her beating the rear of my car with a cast iron skillet in an attempt to break the rear window as I pulled out of the driveway. She was and continues to be a great mother, just not a person I would chose to be friends with under different circumstances. We just never “clicked.”
There has always been talk of divorce between my parents. It usually comes in the form of a threat from my mom during a heated argument, while my dad contemplates it more seriously and continuously. About twice a year there comes a time where he gets a little more serious about divorce. Three summers ago he met with an attorney. Two summers ago he met with a mediator. Last summer he did it.
My sister grace is three years younger than I and just entered her first year of college. Both my mom and dad went to see her off at the beginning of her freshman year, just as they had done for me three years earlier. They planned to drop her off at school and stay for a few days, touring Cambridge and Boston. I stayed home, keeping an eye on my dad’s small business and preparing for my upcoming move back to school. My dad left with high hopes for the weekend. When I picked him up at the airport (he flew back while my mom stayed out east for another couple of days), he was nearly speechless. What he hoped would go well had instead gone sour.
Two weeks into school I got a call from my parents, both of them on the line. After some small talk, they told me the news.
“So your dad has decided to move out and is living in his office.” Said my mom. “We want you to know that we still love you and you will always have a home.” She reassured me.
I did my best to calm her; I could tell she was on the verge of a breakdown. I told her that I understood that their separation wasn’t due to me, and that I knew they both still loved me. My dad really didn’t say much. He knew I saw it coming and didn’t need to tell me twice.
It’s something that was inevitable; the only real question was when. There was such constant talk of divorce, yet nothing ever seemed to happen. Once my sister went to school, I think my dad saw it as there being nothing left between him and my mom. I’m not bitter about it. I think in the end everyone can be happier in the end. It simply wasn’t working for them or for anyone else.
The saddest part of all? It’s still not over. Remind me not to get married.

This article appealed to me because the story reminded me much of the dynamic at my household as a child. It seemed as if it were a weekly affair where my dad would come home, open the garage door, and find that his parking space was now occupied by my mom's newest "treasures" that she found at the local thrift store or garage sales.

Saturday mornings she would always try to drag me away from the cartoons I was intently watching with my sister and convince us to join her. She always won too, simply explaining that I was far too young to stay at home alone. We would always return home, back of the minivan packed full of stuff that to this day I lovingly refer to as "crap," and jam it into one of many storage areas around the house.

The saddest part of all of it? I didn't grow up in a simple suburban neighborhood, but rather on a 10 acre lot a little bit in the country. We had a house. A garage. Two barns. And yet they all overflowed. My mom always had a grand plan for this stuff, dreaming of how she would refinish and restore the more valuable pieces, eventually returning them to the consignment shop to make a profit. Yeah, that never happened. She just hoarded the junk instead.

A couple of weeks ago she was talking about looking for a new house and possibly moving into town. I think we both secretly know that's never going to happen, but I'll let her keep that dream alive for just a little bit longer.

At first the author only reveals what she wants those in her life to see, the persimmon as a valuable, tasty, healthy fruit. Nothing more, nothing less. However, as the piece reaches its end, it becomes clear that there is more of a passion behind the persimmon collection than she would like to let on. This turning point really gave a sense of how personal this writing really was, as she is admitting to the reader what she can't quite seem to admit to herself or others in real life.

Although the woman in the article has a special passion for items very different than those I was part of collecting as a child, her writing just seemed to remind me that our cultures really aren't that different at all. She collected Persimmons, and my mother collected junk. Maybe it's just a Mom thing, who knows.

Reid

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/01/magazine/01funnyhumor.t.html