Unit 1: Vocabulary from Readings 1

Brown bags—humble testament to suburbia, or terminal geek gear?

And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for a friendly face or an inconspicuous corner.

The hot lunch is turkey with reconstituted dried mashed potatoes and gravy, a damp green vegetable, and a cookie.

This eight-foot senior in front of me somehow gets three cheeseburgers, French fries, and two Ho-Hos without saying a word. Some sort of Morse code with his eyes, maybe.

And so, when I think of that time and that place, I remember only the dry September of the dirt roads and grassless yards of the shantytown where I lived.

Perhaps we waited for a miracle, amorphous in concept but necessary if one were to have the grit to rise before dawn each day and labor in the white man’s vineyard until after dark, or to wander about in the September dust offering some meager share of bread.

But God was chary with miracles in those days, and so we waited—and waited.

One day returns to me with special clarity for some reason, perhaps because it was the beginning of the experience that in some inexplicable way marked the end of innocence.

The idleness whose prospect had seemed so beautiful during the busy days of spring now had degenerated to an almost desperate effort to fill up the empty midday hours.

The idleness whose prospect had seemed so beautiful during the busy days of spring now had degenerated to an almost desperate effort to fill up the empty midday hours.

When Miss Lottie's house came into view we stopped, ostensibly to plan our strategy, but actually to reinforce our courage.

When we were tiny children, we thought Miss Lottie was a witch and we made up tales that we half believed ourselves about her exploits.

Joey and I had a particularly bitter argument after supper; his exuberance got on my nerves.

My father whittled toys for us, and laughed so loud that the great oak seemed to laugh with him, and taught us how to fish and hunt rabbits.

The witch was no longer a witch but only a broken old woman who had dared to create beauty in the midst of ugliness and sterility. She had been born in squalor and lived in it all her life.

Miss Lottie died long ago and many years have passed since I last saw her hut, completely barren at last, for despite my wild contrition she never planted marigolds again.

Yet, there are times when the image of those passionate yellow mounds returns with a painful poignancy.