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Advanced Professional Papers · The History of the English Language · First Internship: Tutoring in a Writing Workshop · Second Internship: Advanced Instruction: Tutoring Writing
Visual Literacy Seminar (A First Course in Methodology) · Theories of Communication & Technology (A Second Course in Methodology) · Language in Society (A Third Course in Methodology)
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Non-fiction Creative Essay 1 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 2 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 3 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 4 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 5
Non-fiction Creative Essay 6 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 8 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 9 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 10 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 11
My mouth waters as I cut a bite size piece of the Angus beef and the juices ooze onto my plate. The image of the animal's blood spilling onto the slaughterhouse floor never enters my mind. As I raise the beef, I note its slightly browned exterior and its beautiful reddish pink interior. The succulent beef slips past my lips and I begin to chew the tender meat, savoring the flavor of...
"That's Harry you know," my older sister, Susan says snidely with a smirk on her face as she stares at my sister and I from across the dining room table.
...murder on my tongue. I gagged, leap up from the table, spin, spit Harry onto the floor, break into tears, and run.
"Susan," my mother exclaimed, "How can you be so cold."
"We're farmers," referring to herself and her husband Walter. "We raise animals for food," nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.
The full moon's bright light beamed through the bitter-cold Christmas Eve darkness. It bathed the dilapidated barn in soft yellow light. Susan burst through the front door of the old farmhouse, tired, but grateful the time had finally arrived. She motioned us with her arm and shouted, "Come on, she's giving birth," as she turned and ran back to the barn.
Mom didn't want us to miss this. At age eleven and my younger sister Liz, age nine, obeyed our parents for the most part. Liz and I followed Mom and Susan into the cold wintry night. We walked across the desolate street to the milking barn some time after midnight.
Walter and the Veterinarian waited in the stall with the cow, ready to assist if necessary. My father observed from the perimeter separated by a cold, silver steel railing set up to keep the Jersey cow in place. The barn felt almost as cold inside as outside. As we exhaled, our breath condensed before our eyes. As we watched, the cow began to give birth.
A miraculous moment? Hardly, this disgusted me. It reminded me of all the reasons why I would never become a doctor. I loved science, but I hated the biological stuff, nothing but raw meat to me. The cow emitted blood-curdling moans of pain while she gave birth. A relatively large blob of membrane and creature plopped onto the floor while the bloody placenta trailed behind, oozing out from the struggling mother. The moment made me queasy. Susan lived for this. When I was six, she planned on becoming a Veterinarian, gained acceptance to Cornell University, but instead she married Walter and became a farmer.
Walter and the Vet assisted in removing the calf from the birth sack. They watched to see if the cow's maternal instincts would take over. Fortunately they did. She began to clean her calf with her tongue while still lying in the cold, straw covered stall. Both creatures felt exhausted from the event. The Vet, Susan, Walter, and the Vet congratulated each other on the outcome. The cow gave birth to a healthy, baby bull. My mother, Liz and I left and went to bed. I tossed and turned all night as my subconscious kept playing over and over the events I had seen in vivid, grotesque, wide screen Technicolor.
In the morning we looked in on the cow and calf one more time before we returned to New York. The cow remained lying on the cold straw, but the bull, now standing, wobbled around experimenting with his newly found legs. Both creatures survived the ordeal, so over the next few weeks, the farmers would make plans for their new economic resource; the bull. The options consisted of either using him for breeding purposes or sending him off to slaughter. The bull would enjoy a long life if used for breeding. As a food source, his life span approximated nine months. Man loves his beef tender.
I run through the living room and up the double-breasted staircase with its heavy walnut handrail towards the guest bedroom, leap into the bed, and bury my head into the pillow wailing over the death of our pet bull Harry and his early demise. Thoughts flew through my mind. I wailed for God's forgiveness. What would God say on the Day of Resurrection?
With my fate sealed, I will find myself in a seething ocean of stinking, rotting, raw pet meat, spending eternity chewing on the meat of murder attempting to reach the surface in order to avoid the taste of the unholy flesh. Why is my sister so evil? Why is the damnation of my soul amusing to her? She always sent us letters with bible quotes at the end trying to motivate us to follow the word of the Lord. With her beloved devotion to God, how could she do such a thing? Why would she trick us into eating our pet and have us savor the flavor of murder?
At eleven, I understood pets to be something other than animals. Pets are higher ordered beings, above wild animals, but below humans. Like me, pets are unique. They have a personality therefore they have a soul. Pets are companions. When a pet died, it received a coffin, a proper burial, and a prayer. I would pick flowers from the flowerbeds, placing them on the grave, and create a tombstone from rocks. I would visit the gravesite on Catholic holidays and pray for my poor dead pet. I attend a Catholic Church and Sunday school therefore my pet also believed in the trinity.
One day when I died and went to heaven, my pets would follow. All the pets I ever had would be there. The pets would recognize me and follow me everywhere. God is merciful and forgiving. He wouldn't deprive me of happiness by separating me from my friends, even if they were of a different species. In God's eyes, they were more than animals; they were companions, weren't they?
The last week of October we went to visit Susan on the farm once again. My parents thought a foliage trip an excellent way to spend the weekend, so we went on the five-hour car trip from Westbury, New York to Quarryville, Pennsylvania. On this beautiful fall day, the sun shone brightly upon our arrival at the old farm. When the car stopped, Liz and I shot from the car as out of a canon. In seconds, we got to the corral of the dilapidated barn. Harry wasn't there. We thought he must have residency elsewhere on the farm. We began to walk back to the old farmhouse. Upon our approach, Susan greeted us with my mother standing by her side. Liz and I said in chorus, "Where's Harry?"
"We sold him...," she nonchalantly said. I shot her a queer look. Apparent to me, Susan stopped short of saying more and bit her tongue, something adults do quite often when they realize you're not old enough to hear the truth. Needless to say, Liz and I had the whole day in front of us and found ways to entertain ourselves doing all kinds of things on the farm until the sun began to recede into the horizon. Beautiful hues of purple, violet, gold, orange, and red lit up the autumn sky. Liz and I came in for dinner. The dinner laid out resembled a Thanksgiving Day feast more so than an ordinary weekend meal in late October. Times would often be hard for the farmers and many meager meals would be served, but this meal represented a banquet. Susan and Walter had a bountiful harvest this year.
Walter smiled ear to ear as he delicately carved the scrumptious, juicy piece of beef. As I waited, I watched the sun slowly set as the odor of the meat wafted through the air making us all hungrier. Our mouths began to water as we passed our plates down to Walter and received a delectable piece of the reddish brown meat, oozing with succulent juices. When everyone had a plate, we bowed our heads down as Walter said grace. Susan and Walter were devout Christians and not sinful Catholics like my parents, Liz and I.
"We humbly thank you Lord for the wonderful bounty that you have bestowed upon us this harvest as we remember the times when we are less fortunate and do not have enough to eat, Amen."
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My mouth waters as I cut a bite size piece of the Angus beef and the juices ooze onto my plate. The image of the animal's blood spilling onto the slaughterhouse floor never enters my mind. As I raise the beef, I note its slightly browned exterior and its beautiful reddish pink interior. The succulent beef slips past my lips and I begin to chew the tender meat, savoring the flavor of...
"That's Harry you know," my older sister, Susan says snidely with a smirk on her face as she stares at my sister and I from across the dining room table.
...murder on my tongue. I gag, leap up from the table, spin, spit Harry onto the floor, break into tears, and run.
"Susan," my mother exclaimed, "How can you be so cold."
"We're farmers," referring to herself and her husband Walter. "We raise animals for food," nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.
The full moon's bright light beamed through the bitter-cold Christmas Eve darkness. It bathed the dilapidated barn in soft yellow light. Susan burst through the front door of the old farmhouse, tired, but grateful the time had finally arrived. She motioned us with her arm and shouted, "Come on, she's giving birth," as she turned and ran back to the barn.
Mom didn't want us to miss this. At age eleven and my younger sister Liz, age nine, obeyed our parents for the most part. Liz and I followed Mom and Susan into the cold wintry night. We walked across the desolate street to the milking barn some time after midnight.
Walter and the Veterinarian waited in the stall with the cow, ready to assist if necessary. My father observed from the perimeter separated by a cold, silver steel railing set up to keep the Jersey cow in place. The barn felt almost as cold inside as outside. As we exhaled, our breath condensed before our eyes. As we watched, the cow began to give birth.
A miraculous moment? Hardly, this disgusted me. It reminded me of all the reasons why I would never become a doctor. I loved science, but I hated the biological stuff, nothing but raw meat to me. The cow emitted blood-curdling moans of pain while she gave birth. A relatively large blob of membrane and creature plopped onto the floor while the bloody placenta trailed behind, oozing out from the struggling mother. The moment made me queasy. Susan lived for this. When I was six, she planned on becoming a Veterinarian, gained acceptance to Cornell University, but instead she married Walter and became a farmer.
Walter and the Vet assisted in removing the calf from the birth sack. They watched to see if the cow's maternal instincts would take over. Fortunately they did. She began to clean her calf with her tongue while still lying in the cold, straw covered stall. Both creatures felt exhausted from the event. The Vet, Susan, Walter, and the Vet congratulated each other on the outcome. The cow gave birth to a healthy, baby bull. My mother, Liz and I left and went to bed. I tossed and turned all night as my subconscious kept playing over and over the events I had seen in vivid, grotesque, wide screen Technicolor.
In the morning we looked in on the cow and calf one more time before we returned to New York. The cow remained lying on the cold straw, but the bull, now standing, wobbled around experimenting with his newly found legs. Both creatures survived the ordeal, so over the next few weeks, the farmers would make plans for their new economic resource; the bull. The options consisted of either using him for breeding purposes or sending him off to slaughter. The bull would enjoy a long life if used for breeding. As a food source, his life span approximated nine months. Man loves his beef tender.
I run through the living room and up the double-breasted staircase with its heavy walnut handrail towards the guest bedroom, leap into the bed, and bury my head into the pillow wailing over the death of our pet bull Harry and his early demise. Thoughts flew through my mind. I wailed for God's forgiveness. What would God say on the Day of Resurrection?
"No, sorry, you can't go to heaven. You tasted the unholy flavor of murder at age eleven when you ate Harry the bull."
"But it wasn't my fault," I exclaimed.
"It never is. It's always someone else's fault or the devil made me do it, and it's always, God forgive me this and God forgive me that, yada, yada, yada. Humans! They never fess up to their own actions. Off to Hell with him. Next!"
Screaming at the top of my lungs as two of Lucifer's friends drag me down into the fiery depths of Hell, "Susan tricked me! How would I know Harry was what's for dinner? She told me after chewing the beef."
"Yes, yes, that's what they all say, they set me up, they used me as a patsy, it wasn't my fault... Next!"
With my fate sealed, I will find myself in a seething ocean of stinking, rotting, raw pet meat, spending eternity chewing on the meat of murder attempting to reach the surface in order to avoid the taste of the unholy flesh. Why is my sister so evil? Why is the damnation of my soul amusing to her? She always sent us letters with bible quotes at the end trying to motivate us to follow the word of the Lord. With her beloved devotion to God, how could she do such a thing? Why would she trick us into eating our pet and have us savor the flavor of murder?
At eleven, I understood pets to be something other than animals. Pets are higher ordered beings, above wild animals, but below humans. Like me, pets are unique. They have a personality therefore they have a soul. Pets are companions. When a pet died, it received a coffin, a proper burial, and a prayer. I would pick flowers from the flowerbeds, placing them on the grave, and create a tombstone from rocks. I would visit the gravesite on Catholic holidays and pray for my poor dead pet. I attend a Catholic Church and Sunday school therefore my pet also believed in the trinity.
One day when I died and went to heaven, my pets would follow. All the pets I ever had would be there. The pets would recognize me and follow me everywhere. God is merciful and forgiving. He wouldn't deprive me of happiness by separating me from my friends, even if they were of a different species. In God's eyes, they were more than animals; they were companions, weren't they?
A few weeks later, we received a letter from Susan and the baby bull now had a name, Harry. The name surprised me. Ferdinand seemed more appropriate. She described how Harry loved to eat from her hand and have his head stroked. Harry had a docile temperament and never pawed the ground or charged at humans. He loved his human companions and would always prance up to the edge of his stall when he saw us coming towards him. While he stood there, we stroked Harry's head, back, and side. He basked in the attention and loved for us to talk to him. When Liz and I decided to do something else, as we walked away he would just stare with his dark, brown soulful eyes, hang his head down and slowly walk to the back of his corral. Harry couldn't mix with the cows so he spent all of his time corralled alone. We were his only companions.
As the summer wore on, Harry continued to grow larger and heavier. Now, Liz and I received warnings not step into the corral with Harry. Susan recently made this mistake. Harry nearly crushed Susan against the concrete foundation of the decrepit barn. Susan said Harry wanted to have some roughhouse play with her as with another bull. Harry would soon reach maturity. Now we stroked Harry while standing outside of the corral. The days of the petting zoo had ended.
The last week of October we went to visit Susan on the farm once again. My parents thought a foliage trip an excellent way to spend the weekend, so we went on the five-hour car trip from Westbury, New York to Quarryville, Pennsylvania. On this beautiful fall day, the sun shone brightly upon our arrival at the old farm. When the car stopped, Liz and I shot from the car as out of a canon. In seconds, we got to the corral of the dilapidated barn. Harry wasn't there. We thought he must have residency elsewhere on the farm. We began to walk back to the old farmhouse. Upon our approach, Susan greeted us with my mother standing by her side. Liz and I said in chorus, "Where's Harry?"
"We sold him...," she nonchalantly said. I shot her a queer look. Apparent to me, Susan stopped short of saying more and bit her tongue, something adults do quite often when they realize you're not old enough to hear the truth. Needless to say, Liz and I had the whole day in front of us and found ways to entertain ourselves doing all kinds of things on the farm until the sun began to recede into the horizon. Beautiful hues of purple, violet, gold, orange, and red lit up the autumn sky. Liz and I came in for dinner. The dinner laid out resembled a Thanksgiving Day feast more so than an ordinary weekend meal in late October. Times would often be hard for the farmers and many meager meals would be served, but this meal represented a banquet. Susan and Walter had a bountiful harvest this year.
Liz and I received milk with our meal and so began the war of wills.
"I can't drink that," I squealed.
Susan quickly replied, "Why can't you drink the milk?"
"Because it comes from the cows outside, I won't drink it," defiantly crossing my arms across my chest.
Infuriated, Susan snapped, "You drink milk at home don't you? Where do you think that milk comes from?"
"But that's different, I don't know those cows. All your cows have names. I can't drink it."
Peculiar but true, all of her cows had names. They had their own stalls when milking time came, and they received different amounts of feed according to how much milk they produced from eating the feed. This represented economics at its best. Giving a cow more feed that didn't produce more milk represented an exercise in futility. In my mind, because all the cows had names and I knew them all, Susan's cows were pets. I couldn't drink pet milk.
Walter smiled ear to ear as he delicately carved the scrumptious, juicy piece of beef. As I waited, I watched the sun slowly set as the odor of the meat wafted through the air making us all hungrier. Our mouths began to water as we passed our plates down to Walter and received a delectable piece of the reddish brown meat, oozing with succulent juices. When everyone had a plate, we bowed our heads down as Walter said grace. Susan and Walter were devout Christians and not sinful Catholics like my parents, Liz and I.
"We humbly thank you Lord for the wonderful bounty that you have bestowed upon us this harvest as we remember the times when we are less fortunate and do not have enough to eat, Amen."
Thirty-seven years later at the last Thanksgiving dinner I shared with Susan and Walter before their divorce, I recited grace. I bowed my head and said, "Thank you Lord for this bounty we are about to receive. Please forgive us Lord, as we are sinners, for we have tasted the flesh of murder... and we enjoy it, Amen."
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