Creative nonfiction
Here are the Creative nonfiction items I wrote for the semester.
There are two items here...and is what I WANT to do is sort of combine them into one story. Basically starting out and ending with parts of Grandpa revised extensively and the middle being his story as December 31, 1944, taking into account any suggestions.
Grandpa
I was young when I noticed my grandfather looked a little different, acted a little different, than other people. He had a depression on the right side of his head, just over his ear. I was told by everyone to give him a wide berth and to announce my presence so he would know I was there.
He was partially blind. My mother described his vision to me once. She held a book in front of my face, spine to my nose and had me cup my hands on either side of my face.
“This is what your grandfather sees.” It was like looking through binoculars except nothing converged in the middle.
“How did he get like that?” I asked.
“The war,” was the only response I ever got from someone I asked when I was young.
As time wore on I learned snippets of information. “The war” was World War II. The depression on the side of his head was from shrapnel. No one ever talked about it, really. I don’t know if they were afraid to ask him, or if he refused to answer their questions.
My parents moved out of the state when I was 12 and I only knew my grandfather after that when he would visit us with my grandmother. They were only able to visit a handful of times. I had my memories of him, of following him while he mowed his lawn, my finger locked in his belt loop so that he knew where I was. Looking back, I realized how fearful he must have been to run over one of his grandchildren with the mower because they stood in one of his blind spots.
I chose to move back to New York, where I had lived as child, when I was nineteen to care for my grandmother who had Alzheimer’s. I moved in with them and watched over her while my grandfather went about his daily activities. We had many opportunities to talk, unhindered by anyone’s presence. I built up enough courage to ask him about the war and what happened to him. I do not know if age had tempered him, if time had healed him, or if I was the first to have the courage to ask those hard questions, but he answered all of them.
He had joined the army in the April of 1944. He was 30 years old when he enlisted. He had not been drafted into the army because of his age. He completed basic training by September of that year and then was shipped off to the front lines in France. He didn’t have too much to say about most of the time spent there, just that the winter was cold, the conditions were miserable and he would have preferred to be in the lands of his forefathers in better conditions.
December 31st, he remembers this because it was New Years Eve, was the last day he remembered with any clarity. At some point between then and the following morning, he was standing near a jeep when it exploded. He was struck in the head with shrapnel. My grandfather recounted for me what he could piece together. He knew he spent at least 24 hours, if not 48 hours lying in the snow near the burnt remains of the jeep. He’d been left for dead and the soldiers in the vicinity had spent that time scrambling to fight the axis soldiers bearing down on them. It wasn’t until they were going around collecting the bodies of the fallen soldiers that they realized he was still alive.
I found out later that he had participated in the Battle of the Bulge and just what those conditions were like at that point in time that I find myself amazed that I am even here. He lay in the snow, bleeding from a head wound in subfreezing temperatures for two whole days. Reports from the army listed his date of discovery as January 2nd, 1945 and that they estimated his wounding to take place New Year’s Eve. I always viewed my grandfather as a tough-as-nails individual, but it wasn’t I learned all of this that I realized how true that was.
The war left him permanently damaged, but he never let his head injury or his hindered eyesight get the best of him. And I always felt very touched that I was the only person in my family, to my knowledge, to have had this unique experience to learn about his experiences in World War II.
December 31st, 1944
The sun rose over the glistening white snow that covered the French forest in the Vosges. PFC. Howard DeLand stirred from his slumber. He hadn’t slept for long, at most a couple of hours. He had drifted off the night before realizing that today would be New Year’s Eve and woke to the same thoughts. Although the Battle of the Bulge, or the Ardennes Offensive depending on who you asked, raged on the past few days had been quiet. Rumors abounded-the end of the war was on the horizon, the Krauts were cooking up something foul, even rumors that they would be surrendering soon. Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to hours. And still, nothing happened. Germany was on radio silence and the men of the 70th division didn’t know what would be coming with the New Year.
Breakfast consisted of runny eggs, a cup of coffee and a pack of Arnott’s Plain Biscuits. Howard spent breakfast shivering near a fire listening to several men joke about firing some artillery to celebrate the New Year that night. After breakfast, he made his way down the hill to check in with his superior. He had rumors among the men that new orders had come down that morning. The troops were in offensive formations for several weeks. The radio silence and lack of offensive from the Germans had made this the quietest time, at least in that area, since the offensive started on December 17th.
The Sarge looked worried. The orders were to switch from offensive positions to a more defensive line. The word was the Germans were planning something. What, intelligence was unsure of. Anything could be happening at any time and everyone was to be on high alert. All New Year’s celebrations would be canceled.
The day was spent cleaning guns and counting ammo, preparing for fresh orders that could come down from HQ at any time and walking watch marches around the parameter of the division camp and beyond into the wilderness. Midway through the day, PFC. DeLand took a break for lunch. It consisted of corned hash and another pack of Arnott’s Plain Biscuits. The supplies had just come up from the rear and this was more filling than the K Rations had been for the past week.
Conversations of the afternoon moved through topics like how best to shoot a Nazi to what was happening on the Asian front until they reached the oft mentioned topic of what the men had left back home. PFC DeLand had a good ten to twelve years on most of the men of similar rank. He was one of the few in the division who had enlisted and he had more back home than most of the eighteen to twenty year old privates that were sharing his fire. He had a wife and son as well as another child on the way, due next month.
Dinner came uneventfully and the cook outdid himself with rabbit stew made from a fresh kill someone had dared to hunt for. The whole squad knew that the Krauts were just over the hill and could have heard the shots, but the dinner was worth it in the end. The frigid weather helped to keep the food that was on the supply wagon from spoiling. Secretly Howard hoped someone from a nearby village would come and steal the rest of the Arnott’s Plain Biscuits off of the supply wagon because he never wanted to see another again.
Darkness came and it was time to hunker back down for the night. In the dark, PFC DeLand could hear some of the men talking softly. Again the topics turn to loved ones. One young man was talking about the girl he left back home and how much he missed her. Howard thought about his own wife. Late at night, talk always turned to the girls back home. And every night He wondered if he would see her again. He worried his son would never know his father. This was how he spent all of his nights over the past week. Hours of fear, worry and longing interrupted by bits of sleep or conversation.
His hours for watch came before midnight. He stirred and moved into a position that was more advantageous. The night was quiet; he wasn’t expecting anything to happen. No one was. Two other PFCs were keeping watch with him when the sky lit up. A boom filled the air. All eyes lifted to a sky once again dark. There was a whistling in the air and at that moment, he knew a tank had just fired a shell.
Voices shouted warnings through the night as artillery fire began dropping on the camp. The thunder of the blasts masked the shouts of those on watch. Still, it was enough to wake the Soldiers. Everything was in movement then as they rose, grabbing weapons and attempting to return fire. As artillery dropped, PFC DeLand dove for cover behind a jeep. A heartbeat later the shell impacted the ground near the jeep sending shrapnel everywhere.
He lay there, conscious only a moment. His eyes lifted skyward. Between blasts he could see the stars. He could remember the last time he and his girl lay in field of dandelions staring up the stars and talking of things to come. He never thought this was in his future. In the chaos of the battle that raged around him, he was forgotten, left for dead. The bitter cold slowed the blood that flowed from his head and limbs. The trembling ache that set in bone deep through hands and fingers, feet and toes somehow never went deep enough to case frost bite.
Somehow, two days later, when the special unit of men that walked the battlefields collecting the dead came upon him, he was still alive. By some miracle, frostbite didn’t take his limbs. That cold French winter had held him in her embrace, keeping him safe until someone could find him.
There are two items here...and is what I WANT to do is sort of combine them into one story. Basically starting out and ending with parts of Grandpa revised extensively and the middle being his story as December 31, 1944, taking into account any suggestions.
Grandpa
I was young when I noticed my grandfather looked a little different, acted a little different, than other people. He had a depression on the right side of his head, just over his ear. I was told by everyone to give him a wide berth and to announce my presence so he would know I was there.
He was partially blind. My mother described his vision to me once. She held a book in front of my face, spine to my nose and had me cup my hands on either side of my face.
“This is what your grandfather sees.” It was like looking through binoculars except nothing converged in the middle.
“How did he get like that?” I asked.
“The war,” was the only response I ever got from someone I asked when I was young.
As time wore on I learned snippets of information. “The war” was World War II. The depression on the side of his head was from shrapnel. No one ever talked about it, really. I don’t know if they were afraid to ask him, or if he refused to answer their questions.
My parents moved out of the state when I was 12 and I only knew my grandfather after that when he would visit us with my grandmother. They were only able to visit a handful of times. I had my memories of him, of following him while he mowed his lawn, my finger locked in his belt loop so that he knew where I was. Looking back, I realized how fearful he must have been to run over one of his grandchildren with the mower because they stood in one of his blind spots.
I chose to move back to New York, where I had lived as child, when I was nineteen to care for my grandmother who had Alzheimer’s. I moved in with them and watched over her while my grandfather went about his daily activities. We had many opportunities to talk, unhindered by anyone’s presence. I built up enough courage to ask him about the war and what happened to him. I do not know if age had tempered him, if time had healed him, or if I was the first to have the courage to ask those hard questions, but he answered all of them.
He had joined the army in the April of 1944. He was 30 years old when he enlisted. He had not been drafted into the army because of his age. He completed basic training by September of that year and then was shipped off to the front lines in France. He didn’t have too much to say about most of the time spent there, just that the winter was cold, the conditions were miserable and he would have preferred to be in the lands of his forefathers in better conditions.
December 31st, he remembers this because it was New Years Eve, was the last day he remembered with any clarity. At some point between then and the following morning, he was standing near a jeep when it exploded. He was struck in the head with shrapnel. My grandfather recounted for me what he could piece together. He knew he spent at least 24 hours, if not 48 hours lying in the snow near the burnt remains of the jeep. He’d been left for dead and the soldiers in the vicinity had spent that time scrambling to fight the axis soldiers bearing down on them. It wasn’t until they were going around collecting the bodies of the fallen soldiers that they realized he was still alive.
I found out later that he had participated in the Battle of the Bulge and just what those conditions were like at that point in time that I find myself amazed that I am even here. He lay in the snow, bleeding from a head wound in subfreezing temperatures for two whole days. Reports from the army listed his date of discovery as January 2nd, 1945 and that they estimated his wounding to take place New Year’s Eve. I always viewed my grandfather as a tough-as-nails individual, but it wasn’t I learned all of this that I realized how true that was.
The war left him permanently damaged, but he never let his head injury or his hindered eyesight get the best of him. And I always felt very touched that I was the only person in my family, to my knowledge, to have had this unique experience to learn about his experiences in World War II.
December 31st, 1944
The sun rose over the glistening white snow that covered the French forest in the Vosges. PFC. Howard DeLand stirred from his slumber. He hadn’t slept for long, at most a couple of hours. He had drifted off the night before realizing that today would be New Year’s Eve and woke to the same thoughts. Although the Battle of the Bulge, or the Ardennes Offensive depending on who you asked, raged on the past few days had been quiet. Rumors abounded-the end of the war was on the horizon, the Krauts were cooking up something foul, even rumors that they would be surrendering soon. Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to hours. And still, nothing happened. Germany was on radio silence and the men of the 70th division didn’t know what would be coming with the New Year.
Breakfast consisted of runny eggs, a cup of coffee and a pack of Arnott’s Plain Biscuits. Howard spent breakfast shivering near a fire listening to several men joke about firing some artillery to celebrate the New Year that night. After breakfast, he made his way down the hill to check in with his superior. He had rumors among the men that new orders had come down that morning. The troops were in offensive formations for several weeks. The radio silence and lack of offensive from the Germans had made this the quietest time, at least in that area, since the offensive started on December 17th.
The Sarge looked worried. The orders were to switch from offensive positions to a more defensive line. The word was the Germans were planning something. What, intelligence was unsure of. Anything could be happening at any time and everyone was to be on high alert. All New Year’s celebrations would be canceled.
The day was spent cleaning guns and counting ammo, preparing for fresh orders that could come down from HQ at any time and walking watch marches around the parameter of the division camp and beyond into the wilderness. Midway through the day, PFC. DeLand took a break for lunch. It consisted of corned hash and another pack of Arnott’s Plain Biscuits. The supplies had just come up from the rear and this was more filling than the K Rations had been for the past week.
Conversations of the afternoon moved through topics like how best to shoot a Nazi to what was happening on the Asian front until they reached the oft mentioned topic of what the men had left back home. PFC DeLand had a good ten to twelve years on most of the men of similar rank. He was one of the few in the division who had enlisted and he had more back home than most of the eighteen to twenty year old privates that were sharing his fire. He had a wife and son as well as another child on the way, due next month.
Dinner came uneventfully and the cook outdid himself with rabbit stew made from a fresh kill someone had dared to hunt for. The whole squad knew that the Krauts were just over the hill and could have heard the shots, but the dinner was worth it in the end. The frigid weather helped to keep the food that was on the supply wagon from spoiling. Secretly Howard hoped someone from a nearby village would come and steal the rest of the Arnott’s Plain Biscuits off of the supply wagon because he never wanted to see another again.
Darkness came and it was time to hunker back down for the night. In the dark, PFC DeLand could hear some of the men talking softly. Again the topics turn to loved ones. One young man was talking about the girl he left back home and how much he missed her. Howard thought about his own wife. Late at night, talk always turned to the girls back home. And every night He wondered if he would see her again. He worried his son would never know his father. This was how he spent all of his nights over the past week. Hours of fear, worry and longing interrupted by bits of sleep or conversation.
His hours for watch came before midnight. He stirred and moved into a position that was more advantageous. The night was quiet; he wasn’t expecting anything to happen. No one was. Two other PFCs were keeping watch with him when the sky lit up. A boom filled the air. All eyes lifted to a sky once again dark. There was a whistling in the air and at that moment, he knew a tank had just fired a shell.
Voices shouted warnings through the night as artillery fire began dropping on the camp. The thunder of the blasts masked the shouts of those on watch. Still, it was enough to wake the Soldiers. Everything was in movement then as they rose, grabbing weapons and attempting to return fire. As artillery dropped, PFC DeLand dove for cover behind a jeep. A heartbeat later the shell impacted the ground near the jeep sending shrapnel everywhere.
He lay there, conscious only a moment. His eyes lifted skyward. Between blasts he could see the stars. He could remember the last time he and his girl lay in field of dandelions staring up the stars and talking of things to come. He never thought this was in his future. In the chaos of the battle that raged around him, he was forgotten, left for dead. The bitter cold slowed the blood that flowed from his head and limbs. The trembling ache that set in bone deep through hands and fingers, feet and toes somehow never went deep enough to case frost bite.
Somehow, two days later, when the special unit of men that walked the battlefields collecting the dead came upon him, he was still alive. By some miracle, frostbite didn’t take his limbs. That cold French winter had held him in her embrace, keeping him safe until someone could find him.