OWP06

OWP Reflection

The

Oregon

Writing Project

One Participant’s Perspective

By Athena Sullivan

Want to know what the Oregon Writing Project is like . . . read on to find out!

Website: The Teacher's Desk

Web Review

By: Athena Sullivan

 
Website Title: The Teacher’s Desk

Website Creator: Angela Ackley, Sts. John and Paul Catholic School, Ashtabula, Ohio

URL: http://www.teachersdesk.org/index.html

Book: Interactive Writing

Interactive Writing, How Language and Literacy Come Together, K-2
By Andrea McCarrier, Gay Su Pinnell, and Irene C. Fountas

Reviewed by Athena Sullivan

July 18, 2006

Book: Primary Poetry

Teeth, Wiggly as Earthquakes, Writing Poetry in the Primary Grades
By Judith Tannenbaum

Reviewed by Athena Sullivan
July 13, 2006

Game Day For Duck Fans!

"A must read for all duck fans and those who have yet to experience the magic of Autzen Stadium"
                                                                                                                            ~Donald Duck

Book Review #2

Early Literacy Instruction in Kindergarten
By Lori Jamison Rog

Reviewed by Athena Sullivan

"This is an excellent book for anyone interested in learning about early literacy!"

Book Review #1

About the Authors
Writing Workshop with Our Youngest Writers
By Katie Wood Ray with Lisa B. Cleaveland

Reviewed by Athena Sullivan
July 4, 2006

    This is an interesting book for anyone teaching kindergarten or first grade. This book is an overview and guide to teaching writing using the writer’s workshop model. The book presents many interesting lessons and units of study. Some of the types of mini-lessons they suggest are: “techniques, strategies, understandings, conventions, questions.”  It clearly describes how to set up your classroom physically, as well as the routines and management necessary to have an effective writer’s workshop. Writer’s workshop according to this book is surrounded by the core idea that children must do realistic, authentic writing or what they call “making stuff.” Children learn writing techniques by “reading like a writer.” One of the advantages of having writer’s workshop daily is that children begin to think about their writing outside of writing time. I highly recommend watching the DVD that corresponds to the book. It gives you a great feel for what writer’s workshop looks like.

   

Even though I do not use a traditional writer’s workshop in my classroom I found this book helpful and inspiring. I am going to use some of the ideas I learned in this book in my classroom next year. One of these ideas is stapling paper together into books for children to write on. I can see how this would help children understand that they are writing for a purpose and be very motivating. Something I do in my class occasionally is share student work. Next year I plan on making a point of having sharing each time we write. I also want to use this sharing time as a teaching moment by pointing out positives and asking questions of the writer. The idea I loved the most from this book was using photographs to help students write non-fiction pieces of writing. This book also contains many lists of children’s books that can help you teach different writing concepts. This is an easy to read and use book that could be a springboard for planning your writing curriculum for a year!

The Promise

The Promise

By: Athena Sullivan

   

Grace brushes a damp, red curl from her freckled forehead, resting the other hand on her growing belly, and breathes the word “Oregon” to herself. The sound of the word spoken aloud reassures her. The air is still and even though the sun is low in the sky, the August heat still radiates from the dry, cracked earth below her feet. She kicks a buffalo chip, discovers it is dry all the way through and bends to pick it up. As she tosses it into the basket, she chuckles remembering the time not too long ago that she foolishly picked up the first chip she saw and how her fingers had sunk in releasing the terrible stench baked inside. Soon her basket is full and she slowly picks her way across the prairie.

    She arrives back at the wagon, just as the last ox is unhitched and ambles slowly toward the others, who are already greedily munching the dry grass. Grace squeezes between two wagons and makes her way to the center of the circle where the women and girls gossip about the day’s trip as they prepare dinner. Grace quietly digs the fire pit, gathers handfuls of dry grass and layers in the buffalo chips. She strikes the flint against the steel, drowning out the voices of the other women and igniting the dry grass. The heat of the fire causes drops of sweat to run down Grace’s body creating dark brown trails in the dry dust that coats her skin. Her mind wanders while she monitors the fire, restocking it each time it starts to die down. This is just one of the many unpleasant tasks that have become Grace’s daily routine. She contently completes these undesirable jobs, not only because it assures her the independence that she prefers, but because she is contributing the only thing she has left. Herself.

    The stars pop out of the black sky as Grace looks up from her bedroll below the Black’s wagon. The Blacks have been kind to Grace, sharing what little they have with her, defending her from the other members of the wagon train and ultimately allowing her to continue the trek to Oregon when all the others wanted to leave her at the last fort. As she falls asleep, Grace thinks about how different her life is now and how split second decisions add up to a lifetime of change. Her dreams are filled with memories.

        Charles presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked as they walked through the fields surrounding her parent’s farm. They had been young, in love, and carefree. Grace’s personality was as wild and independent as her fiery red hair. One spring day her father announced the family would be joining the next wagon train to Oregon. Even though she didn’t know she was expecting, Grace had argued and fought, but in the end cried as they left behind her farm, her Charles, and her life. At the time she had not know that part of Charles was growing in her. Charles promised to meet her in Oregon as soon as he could earn enough money to make the trip.

        This promise keeps Grace rising early each morning, walking all day, and working until her body collapses into her rough, musty bedroll.  In the gray light of morning Grace crawls out from under the wagon, ties back her unruly hair, rubs her ever growing belly and whispers “good morning” to it. She gazed out across the prairie and the still, quiet land is a sharp contrast to her thoughts.

       Her mother had known even before she did. Her father had been furious and refused to talk to her months into their journey. Grace knew she had disgraced her family, but she loved Charles and the baby growing inside her. She just wished Charles was with her so that the others would know his wonderful spirit and the love they shared. The minister on the wagon train could marry them and the shame would become joy.

        As the dew evaporates in the hot morning sun, the wagon train slowly pulls out like a snake uncoiling itself. Today, like everyday, Grace walks beside the Black’s ox team urging them on through the dry prairie. Grace keeps time by watching the sun march across the sky each day. With the sun high overhead she is surprised when the wagon train slows. She jogs alongside the other wagons, through the clouds of dust to see what is going on. As she nears the front of the train her heart stops and fear paralyzes her body.  Carved into the land a wide swiftly moving river sparkles in the sunlight, its dark water blocking the path to Oregon. Many wagons are parked along the shore, each preparing to make the treacherous trip across the water. Up the bank a long line of wagons wait to pay a hefty sum to cross the river on the ferry. Grace’s eyes fill with tears and her body shakes. The river takes her back.

    Grace’s mother stuck her head out of their wagon and called for Grace to take the rope to her father who stood at the rivers edge. He looked across the water and mapped a path in his brain. He was always a frugal man and believed in doing things for himself. So while many of the other wagons from their train paid the fare to cross the river by ferry. Grace and her family prepared to cross. Grace and her mother clung to each other inside the wagon as it tipped back and forth in the river and her father drove the team. In the middle of the river the wagon lurched to a stop when it hit a rock and the back wheel jammed. As her father tried to free the wagon, it tipped, crushed him, and sent all the family’s belongings along with Grace’s mother down the river. Somehow Grace had been able to cling to a rock in the rushing water and Mr. Black tossed a rope in and pulled her to safety. She had been wrapped in a blanket and laid in the back of the Black’s wagon. Grace stared at the side of the wagon, hugged herself and quietly whispered the word, “Oregon, Oregon, Oregon,” as the wagon gently rocked her to sleep. Grace had nothing but herself, her baby, and a promise.

    Grace cradles her stomach as she slowly turns from the river and heads back to the Black’s wagon. Mrs. Black looks up as Grace comes into view through the settling dust and instantly knows what lies ahead. The mood around the fire that night is solemn and everywhere Grace goes, whispers turn to silence. She goes to bed as the families discuss whether to pay for the ferry or to ford the river. Grace rises early and walks down to the river’s edge. The air is already warm and the cool water sends goosebumps up her arms as she washes her face, sending salty warm tears into the clear, fresh water. It is decided that all the wagons will cross by ferry. They wait in line and it is mid-day by the time each wagon crosses safely to the other side of the river. The wagon train continues across prairies, through forests, over mountains. Each day closer to Oregon.

    Grace wraps a wool sweater tighter around her body, stretching it over her ballooning stomach. The cold, short, wet days are filled with activity and urgency. They must reach Oregon before the extreme winter weather sets in. All the remaining members of the wagon train strain to urge the last wagon up a steep incline. At last all the wagons are up and dinner preparations begin. Tonight is a celebration. The hunting was good and meat sizzles on the fire tended by Grace. The others look out across the valley below, each family staking out their claim of the Oregon territory. Laughter and singing fills the night air as Grace quietly slips away. In the moon-light the valley below is filled with promise for Grace. She shouts the word “Oregon” and the valley answers back in an echo. She smiles and whispers “Oregon” to her belly.

Mount St. Helens

Mount St. Helens

Athena Sullivan

 

    I toss my backpack into the bed of dad’s truck and hug Mom goodbye. She is standing in the driveway with a worried look on her face as she christens our trip with her usual reminder to be safe. You see, while my whole family enjoys the outdoors, only Dad and I like to carry fifty pound backpacks through the wilderness for days without showering, and do things like climb mountains. Dad starts up the truck and with a friendly honk and a wave, we are off on our next great adventure. As we cruise up the interstate, I interrogate him, asking hundreds of questions and demanding details about climbing Mount St. Helens. He excitedly describes what he remembers from climbing it over a decade ago, and we both marvel at the feat we are about to undertake. Each of us is motivated by our own goal; his is to prove that at age fifty, he can still climb a mountain, and mine is to summit my first.

    We exit the interstate and head up a small highway to the tiny town at the base of the mountain. As we pull into the dirt parking lot of Jack’s General Store I am excited and nervous at the thought that tomorrow could be “the” day. The dimly lit store is filled with people all eager to get a permit to climb. We slowly make our way among the racks while sizing up our competition. When we finally get to the back of the store, we each fill out a ticket and place it into the worn wooden box. The evening sun is bright, causing us to squint as we exit the store and join the others. We chat with a few other potential climbers asking all the usual questions: Where are you from? Have you ever climbed her before? There is an excitement in the air and a strong sense of camaraderie. The groups of strangers are diverse, but we are all connected by the common goal to climb Washington’s famous volcano. Just then, a large man, who quite obviously is Jack, struts out of the store and with a commanding voice calls for our attention. He gives a long cautionary speech about climbing the mountain and all the things one must do to be safe. Finally, he begins to pull tickets. He calls out the names of the lucky few who will be given permits to climb the mountain the next day. As he pulls each ticket, I hold my breath and for the split second before Jack reads each name, my heart stops beating. When neither of our names had been called I begin to think all hope is lost and am mentally preparing to do the whole thing again tomorrow. Jack’s deep voice calls out my Dad’s name. My heart races with excitement, but at the same time, a nervous feeling begins to settle in my stomach. I have always been a worrier, just one of the many personality traits inherited from my dad.
       
    As we drive up the curvy road to the base camp, Mount St. Helens comes into view and then disappears again behind the trees. Dad slows the truck as we pull into base camp and we get our first look at Mount St. Helens up close. I quickly set up our tent while dad starts a fire. We sit around the small fire roasting hot dogs, drinking beer, and congratulating ourselves on our good luck with the permits. The camp begins to quiet as the full moon shines brightly overhead. I can still see the silhouette of Mount St. Helens against the sky as I zip up the tent and crawl into my sleeping bag.  I toss and turn and find it difficult to get any sleep with the anxious feeling I had - a mixture of excitement and nerves.
       
    The gray light of morning is shining through my tent as I am awoken by the voices of other hikers preparing to head up the mountain. I crawl out of the tent and take the mug of hot tea Dad hands me. We sit around the ashes of last night’s fire to have breakfast, not wanting to bother building a new one this morning. I swing my pack onto my back and we make our way to the trail-head. The first few miles of trail pass through the dense forest and we hike without much talk. We each take in the sights and sounds of the forest coming alive in the morning. I begin to mentally prepare for the challenge that lies ahead. The path slowly gains altitude and soon we are out of the dense forest. We walk through fields of wildflowers and as the path gets steeper, the vegetation grows more and more sparse.
       
    The sun is high in the sky by the time we reach the part of the climb where you have to climb up and over large lava rocks. I love this part of the climb because it makes me feel strong and I continue to pick my route through the jumble of black rock. After we climb up the final rock and step onto the soft ash that covers the last section of the mountain, my hands are burning and swollen, but all I care about is continuing up. This part of the hike is the most difficult. My legs burn and Dad starts to slow. With each step I take, my foot slides half a step back down. While the hot sun beats down, we continue up the steep terrain, and I think about how deep below my feet, the mountain is alive, just waiting to explode again. We crest what I think is the top and I am disappointed to see that we still have five hundred feet to go. My body is tired, but my mind is fixated on getting to the top. We slow our pace, but with each step, my excitement grows.
       
    Just before we reach the top, Dad grasps my hand and side by side we take the last few steps together. We’ve done it! We have each accomplished our individual goal, but the shared experience is what I will remember forever. It feels like we are on top of the world I slowly turn around in a circle taking in the magnificent view.  I feel physically and spiritually strengthened. I look out across the land covered with trees and deep into the crater. I study every detail and want to stay up here forever. As we glide back down the mountain retracing our steps, I am already planning our next adventure.