# Marigold (3-page essay; college course)



## Chaseanthemum (Sep 16, 2015)

Marigold​ 
            My great-grandmother had the most compassionate of souls and the sweetest of tongues. Her voice was mellifluous, a whisper in the autumn leaves and a tender mountain stream embodied in every word she spoke. The aura about her was one that I even in my young age could recognize as an extraordinary one. She had a way of guiding people not by shouting or coercion, but by leading them to truly understand the righteous paths in their life, despite not making the best ones for herself. Also, she was a captivating writer who perhaps expressed a few out-of-character terms in the local papers about George W. Bush. However, the thing I admired most amidst her myriad of impressive talents was her green thumb. She had an unconditional love for all living things which shone through her nurturing hands in how she could enchantingly coax a tiny, insignificant seed into sprouting the most luscious, effervescent petals.
            My great-grandmother lived with me and my family for a few years after she lost her house; unfortunately as fate would have it, the greatest of us always tend to have the most troublesome lives. During those years, she took to reading, writing and tending to her flower garden. I believe that having her live with us for those short years truly changed the course of my life. At the time, I only cared about video games, and frankly, I was a bad kid. She made me realize two key things about life: that all life is sacred, and that it is better to combat your wicked nature with fervid determination than it is to simply be an intuitively moral person.
            Every weekday afternoon I would broodingly hop off the bus and see her working diligently in her garden. Being the rude child that I was, I would rarely ever acknowledge her presence en passant. Though she would always smile at me and enthusiastically greet me, the most I ever imparted in return was a head nod. This behavior went on for months until one day I had an exceptionally bad experience at school and was searching for any sort of reprieve from the day I was having. When I’m feeling blue, I have a habit of staring at the ground around my feet as I walk. As I moped up the hill from the bus stop, I happened to notice a lonesome flower growing out of the concrete sidewalk. I took a rather odd liking to the desolate fellow, so I decided I wanted to keep my new friend, meticulously plucking him, making sure not to sever his delicate roots. As I approached the mound my house sat upon, my grandmother notices the little guy in my hands and asks me, “Well, what’s that you’ve got with ya?” I hesitantly replied, as it seemed odd actually speaking with her for once, “I found it growing out of the street.” She then explained to me how resilient it must be and how life always finds a way. She also enlightened me on the previously unfamiliar detail that once you pluck a flower, it slowly begins to die. I remember my eyes starting to swell up after she told me this, as I had never considered that I was actually killing something. She then assured me that we still had time to salvage it, being that I coincidentally preserved its roots. I was asked to go grab her trowel she kept visibly lying next to the bushes she tended to. “Now dig a small hole.” It came to me as shocking that she would ask me to do that, because I had never planted anything before and my nine-year-old brain was processing that situation as a dire life-or-death scenario. I miraculously mustered up the courage to start digging with my violently shaky hands. When I finished and warily situated my friend in his new home, I felt a certain tranquility and contentment blanket the world around me. All was right again, I thought; I saved a life today. I glanced over at my grandmother, and she had a peculiar look on her face, as if she knew exactly how I felt in that precious moment and was reminiscing on the first time she felt that way. I then ran inside, a bit embarrassed, and incredibly thrilled, threw my bag on the floor, and bolted back out to my grandma beseeching her to allow me to help her tend to her flowers. Of course, characteristic of the gentle soul she was, she accepted resoundingly. I spent the remainder of my now jubilant day outdoors with her, watering flowers, pulling weeds, and planting new seeds of life.
I asked a lot of questions that day. I asked everything from philosophical questions like why do things have to die, to being perplexed as to how something as brittle and elusive as soil can slip through your fingers and compose all of which we stand and build upon. Eventually, I got around to asking a relevant question: “what do they call this flower?” “A marigold,” she gleefully responded, “one of my favorites, actually!” I’ll never forget how remarkable it felt seeing her so cheery.
            My great-grandmother lead me to grasp many concepts about life that day that I probably won’t ever forget. If there is one lesson that I could choose to undeniably never forget, it would be the importance of making everybody feel like they are valuable. I felt worthless that day until she came along to liven me up, despite how I neglected her every day before then. To this day, I make it a goal of mine to talk to at least one person about their passion because of how incredible it felt seeing my grandmother so cheerful, and because I know how it is to feel absolutely worthless, just to have someone out of nowhere pull you from your troublesome hole and place you into a comfy, new, proud one.


EDIT: I'm not sure how to add proper indentation on this site, so bear with me -- Haha.


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## Plasticweld (Sep 17, 2015)

In all honesty I would have to know you better to say this fairly, so take it with a grain of salt as they say. 

The words you chose all seem rather detached, more like you are observing a science experiment rather than someone you loved.  I have hard time believing that if you and I were sitting down drinking a beer together and I said "Hey so tell me about your Great Grandma?" that these are the adjectives you would chose to describe her. 


I feel that the best stories are ones that your reader can identify with, and have feelings for.  The words you use to describe both yourself and your grandmother all seem to make it seem rather cold.  


I hope this helps...Bob


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## Chaseanthemum (Sep 18, 2015)

Plasticweld said:


> In all honesty I would have to know you better to say this fairly, so take it with a grain of salt as they say.
> 
> The words you chose all seem rather detached, more like you are observing a science experiment rather than someone you loved.  I have hard time believing that if you and I were sitting down drinking a beer together and I said "Hey so tell me about your Great Grandma?" that these are the adjectives you would chose to describe her.
> 
> ...



Are you serious right now?...

I, not one bit, see where you coming from with that analysis. I poured my soul into this paper, and for you to say such a thing kind of hurts...

Thankful, not thankful.


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## Boofy (Sep 18, 2015)

Hey there, Chase. After reading this, I can see a little of where Bob was coming from with his comment, and I am sure he meant no offence. It's always a sensitive issue, critiquing such a personal work. Feelings are bound to be affected a little bit more simply because of that connection the writer has with work surrounding their life. I will try to break down what I thought worked, and what didn't, purely based on my perspective as a reader.

Firstly, I think it's a wonderful idea. That a boy and his Grandmother can find common ground, generations apart, is a lovely thing. The story of a little boy who's sad after a hard day, perhaps unappreciative of his elderly Grandmother as so often the young are, is a great idea to work with. I think the trouble with this piece isn't so much the subject matter, as the disconnect the words bring. The story is filled with life lessons and an uplifting message that readers _should_ be able to relate to, or find insight in. The trouble for me started with the abundance of descriptive words and -lys. The read was a little jarring and the unnecessary -ly words were a big contributing factor. I felt like your voice was lost in a sea of -lys at times. I think a good example of this was "incredibly thrilled". Trust me, I do it too. I am sure we all do. After writing a piece, try and buff out a few dents here and there. Really scan the work for things like that. Be brutal! :3

I also thought that if you began instead with the little boy walking home, downtrodden, and his grandmother helping him to find the good in his day, we as readers might then appreciate her attributes all the more. You put a lot of them at the start in almost a list-like way, and I think that, as readers, we might benefit from sharing your experience with her first. You could even flesh out some things there. I want to know what she looked like, or what her favourite perfume was. Something special, something that triggers the senses. That is always a great way to pull a reader closer.

Despite all of that, I can clearly see the admiration you have for her. That you'd dedicate such an amount of time to sharing her wisdom with the rest of us is evidence enough of that. I hope this helps. I know I'd be proud if I had a grandson one day who was willing to write about me in such a way ^^;


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## Chaseanthemum (Sep 18, 2015)

Boofy said:


> Hey there, Chase. After reading this, I can see a little of where Bob was coming from with his comment, and I am sure he meant no offence. It's always a sensitive issue, critiquing such a personal work. Feelings are bound to be affected a little bit more simply because of that connection the writer has with work surrounding their life. I will try to break down what I thought worked, and what didn't, purely based on my perspective as a reader.
> 
> Firstly, I think it's a wonderful idea. That a boy and his Grandmother can find common ground, generations apart, is a lovely thing. The story of a little boy who's sad after a hard day, perhaps unappreciative of his elderly Grandmother as so often the young are, is a great idea to work with. I think the trouble with this piece isn't so much the subject matter, as the disconnect the words bring. The story is filled with life lessons and an uplifting message that readers _should_ be able to relate to, or find insight in. The trouble for me started with the abundance descriptive words and -lys. The read was a little jarring and the unnecessary -ly words were a big contributing factor. I felt like your voice was lost in a sea of -lys at times. I think a good example of this was "incredibly thrilled". Trust me, I do it too. I am sure we all do. After writing a piece, try and buff out a few dents here and there. Really scan the work for things like that. Be brutal! :3
> 
> ...



...
I have nothing to say to that other than I'm not seeing the "detachment" you all so adamantly insist is there... And what is so "jarring" about a word ending in the suffix -ly? 
I'm sorry, I don't mean to come off as bitter, but it just seems to me that none of you actually read the story and instead diligently searched for every miniscule flaw.

That being said, I think I'm done with this site for a while.

Bye.

EDIT: P.S. it was a descriptive narrative essay. The abundance of descriptive words was a necessity.


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## Crowley K. Jarvis (Sep 18, 2015)

Hey. I remember one of your posts, 'twas pleasantly surprised to see you again. 

I can tell you did put a lot of feeling into this, and I enjoyed it. For time's sake I won't share, but I had a similar experience with both of my grandparents. 

If I may, though....

Having too many similar words/repeated phrasings is generally considered jarring, and does separate one from the story somewhat. 

As far as the detachment, although I myself didn't see it, it may just be choice of words. I could tell you felt strongly about it, but your wording was more towards the analytical side. 

I will also admit for the third time, it is difficult looking at a personal piece objectively. 

Boofy, and Bob didn't do anything a teacher wouldn't have done. This is a voluntary forum to help writers get better at writing. They gave of their time, to give your work an honest critique, instead of lying and saying 'Oh this is perfect, and has zero mistakes whatsoever.' 

Being thusly detached ourselves, allows us to avoid making personal comments, or attacks, and instead focus solely on the writing, and offer advice to improve only the writing.

  But we have a bit of a motto here when it comes to critiques: If you want to, ignore it. 

Advice is voluntarily given and taken. If nothing we say is actually helping, (Like getting bad life advice from a drunk man on a street corner,) then brush it off. xD 

-Whispers: I've done so many times myself. ;D 

All the best~

~Crowley


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