Month: June 2018

Good start with your rough draft. I had a few questions as I was reading. How well do you believe the theories in the article matched what you observed? In paragraph two I thought you could have connected entering the store to the decompression zone in the article. Also, was there any dialogue between your daughter and the greeter? I like how you mentioned overhearing a customer talking about a cruise and a need for Disney pajamas. Perhaps you could add the dialogue you heard? I’m curious, as you said the same customer also stopped to look at Disney movies, if the displays were near each other in the store? There was a good connection to the article in paragraph four, however, I might move the description of the store from paragraph four to paragraph two. Overall good start, I would just edit by adding more details – What demographics did you see shopping? What are more sensory details you could use to describe the store and what you see? What are other displays you noticed and how are people interacting with them?

I think the biggest thing I learned from reading this article was that putting too many details and covering too large of a span of time creates a summary over a scene. As I revised my rough draft I tried to edit out words such as always, would, and sometimes as these signal events that aren’t in the exact moment, but rather things that have happened at one time or another. It’s important to be specific, to talk about one night or event that is happening at a precise time. This was somewhat difficult for me because the Christmas party I wrote about is approximately the same every year. I was able to turn my focus to specific moments by recalling events and dialogue that happened at one specific party. I tried to hone in on a rather sensitive topic, the passing of my grandmother. I felt I was following the article by describing a scene in an attempt to slow time down. This detailed event only took a minute or two in real life, but by giving details and adding dialogue I hoped the reader would wonder the outcome. I know I was guilty of trying to cram too much into my rough draft, so I tried to focus on single moments that showed what I felt home was like rather than tell. In conclusion, I would like to continue to work on editing my thoughts to create more of a sensory scene rather than a story.

Growing up in a military family I moved around often; totaling five moves by age seven before my father retired and eight moves total. We moved back to Buffalo, New York (by far my favorite place we ever lived), my parents’ home town, for four years. “Dad is getting relocated again,” I heard. The instability of making and leaving friends was difficult and emotional. “Why can’t he just get a different job, so we can stay?” I yelled. Birthday parties, playdates and sleepovers were attended by different friends each year. I wanted a friend that I had known my whole life.  Once I felt the comfort of a new friend I was saying goodbye again. I told myself, “One day you’re going to have you own house and be able to stay put.” I’ve lived in Massachusetts for nine years. I’ve accomplished a personal goal and purchased a home of my own and as proud as I am, it hasn’t encompassed the true meaning of home.

To me, home is being with family and the traditions and memories you have with them. Moving around – you know the military thing – we never had our extended family near us. Now living in Massachusetts, I still have no family near me. I remember being envious of friends who spoke of aunts, uncles, and cousins piling around a table for Thanksgiving and Easter egg hunts in the backyard with cousins. While others complained, I longed to sit at the kids table instead of just being with my parents and siblings at our dining room table with the Corelle tableware and silverware my mother only brought out on special occasions. I missed building forts with the couch cushions in the basement with my older cousins, James, Shane, and Angie. Even though I was younger and didn’t get a controller as often, I thought of the small grey Nintendo box that housed the Super Mario Brothers game. “Your turn Jon,” my cousin Angie says. I didn’t get to be Mario but just getting to play Luigi was a highlight. The four years of living in New York and every trip I take to New York for Christmas is the epitome of home.

The car is packed from floor to ceiling with presents and luggage, heavy coats and snow boots as I travel west on Interstate 90. I make a list in my head of everything I want to do while spending my few days in New York. I hear my phone receive several texts from the group message I’m in with my cousins as we plan our annual night out to Average Joe’s, the local bar. “You’re going down at darts this year!” and “You still owe me from those shots last year,” are just a few of the banter back and forth. I know I must stop at Anchor Bar for my customary lunch of chicken wings with blue cheese, maybe a beef on weck if I’ve hit traffic from a snow storm and I’m starving. I plan which morning to go to Paula’s donuts to get their exclusive peanut stick donut – drenched in glaze and rolled in crushed up peanuts, it’s honestly heaven and the best donut I’ve ever eaten. As I finally make it into town I stop at Wegman’s; I pull my snow boots out of the back seat to prepare myself for the snow-covered parking lot that awaits. I head to the bakery for my favorite rye bread and to get another jar of Weber’s horseradish mustard to add to my pantry as a backup. These are the things that taste like home. I finish up my shopping at Wegman’s, grabbing the extra ice my uncle requested and head to my uncle’s house for the big party.

Christmas Eve, my favorite holiday, one of the biggest get togethers my family celebrates. I have been going to the same party with the same people every year for as long as I can remember. Aunts and uncles, cousins, parents, siblings, grandchildren, growing more each year. We all squeeze into whoever is hosting the party that year’s house. Covering couches, recliners, dining room chairs that have been scattered into spare openings, and every available square inch of the living room floor.

We are called into the living room and surround the Christmas tree, as my uncle announces my aunt has something to share with the family. She’s artsy, I see the hand painted, heart-shaped snowman ornaments she made for all the women in the family. She displays a miniature, red, rocking chair and a small candle with a hand painted Christmas tree with black cursive writing as a backdrop. “Christmas in Heaven, what do they do? They come down to earth to spend time with you. So, save them a seat just one empty chair. You may not see them, but they will always be there.” She holds back tears as she reads a letter she’s written from the point of view of my grandmother, whom we lost just four months ago. “I look forward to being at each and every Christmas party,” she reads. “So, make sure my chair is taken from home to home as I look down at the beautiful tradition we’ve created.” Tissues are pulled from boxes on the end table as we reminisce of our loved one who is no longer with us. This moment makes me cherish my family and the togetherness that feels like home.

My crafty aunt also writes a silly story every year with the words left and right in it and we all hold our gift-wrapped candy of different shapes and sizes ready to pass at her command. “The elves LEFT the workshop RIGHT after Santa had loaded up his sleigh,” she recites. It turns into a cluster of contorting your arms in different directions to pass, children getting mixed up with their left and right, and some people ending up with two packages in their hand. It’s a mess and fantastic all at the same time. Again, with the laughter, she ends her story and we tear open our packages to see if we got lucky. Of course, there’s switching and the occasional bribe that happens.

My cousin and James and I reach for a paper plate at the same time, joking over who should get to load theirs up first. “I’m older,” he laughs, “Get in line.” He asks, “How’s the headache from those SoCo shots last night?” I retort with, “How’s it feel to lose your twenty bucks because you can’t throw a dart?” We bust each other regularly, but it’s all in good fun. We eat, more than once, snack, graze, even gorge ourselves. Deli platters from Wegman’s cover the table just like last year, crock pots find a home near every available outlet – their covers lean haphazardly against them. Deserts, I mean honestly, an obscene amount that should never be offered to one person in one day, ever, are everywhere. Cookies, cakes, truffles, pies, in tins on the coffee table, travel containers in the kitchen, and platters on the dining table. The bar is littered with abandoned red solo cups and sharpie markers. “The egg nog is ready,” shouts my uncle. We all ladle his concoction into our cups knowing the Captain heavily outweighs the egg nog.

It’s different now than it was when I was a kid, but I still look forward to it just the same. The absurd amounts of fresh fallen snow have a whimsical feel. I’m not sure if snow has a smell or how you would even describe it, but, it does when I’m there. It smells fresh and untouched. As I run is stocking feet on the back porch to get a beer I hear the trains on the railroad tracks. All these things are the culmination of what home is to me. I want nothing more than to keep this tradition alive and pass it along to my children because it truly feels like home.

I’m probably not the norm when I say this, but for a man, I enjoy shopping; sometimes. I will confess that’s more the case with tools and clothes for myself and not groceries and household items where I let my wife take the lead. I chose to observe a store where I end up frequenting often with my wife as it’s a go to with several of life’s necessities. The one and only, bright red bull’s eye; Target. I thought about key points made in Gladwell’s article as I drove to the store; listening to the list of items we needed to purchase in the distance and relating that back to men’s lack of lists. I thought about downshifting and decompression zones which are things I’ve never stopped to think about. I was curious to put all these things into perspective as I entered the driveway of the shopping center.

I pull into the parking lot and can already tell the store is going to be mayhem due to the sparse quantity of parking spots available. There are rogue carts propped up on curbs, but the majority are in the cart corrals. I noticed the volume of carts in the enclosures weren’t excessive like with some stores which makes me think there’s an adequate number of employees bringing them back in. The landscaping is minimal around the parking lot; only a few bushes here and there. The front of the store is minimal but clean and inviting. Those strange red spheres line the sidewalk across the front of the store; I still haven’t determined their purpose. As I walk through the second set of sliding doors the chaos hits; the decompression zone. I immediately smell the aroma of freshly brewed Starbucks coffee and recently popped popcorn from the snack counter to my left. People are trying to claim a cart or shopping basket; which are in an inconvenient spot almost behind the registry kiosk. The germ-a-phoebes search for the antibacterial wipes. The process of finding the wipes, going backward to the carts, then searching for a receptacle to dispose of your wipe is quite a confusing process.

As I feel I’ve made it through the decompression zone the section of frivolous shelves and baskets of nonsense as I call it lures women and children over. Seasonal knick-knacks, excesses of inexpensive children’s toys, and every useless item you probably won’t use, but are driven to buy, for your 4^th of July barbeque. I notice a couple with their two children drawn to the space. She browses the feminine tea towels and banners while the children plead for the multitudes of toys they simply must have. Tantrums commence when they’re told “no, you have plenty of toys at home.” I conclude they are smart shoppers as neither woman nor children add any items to the cart. I pass an eye level shelving display full of summer must-haves; a smore’s extravaganza of massive Jet-Puffed marshmallows, Hershey’s chocolate bars, and Honey Maid graham crackers. The same family has added one of each to their cart, which happens to result in a reward of a five-dollar Target gift card; there’s the smart shopper thought again. “How about we make smore’s this weekend, doesn’t that sound fun?” Mom and dad say to calm the anguish of not getting a toy. It seems a family activity everyone can enjoy made the cut over individual wants.

Decision time, go straight ahead towards women’s clothing or take a left where children’s clothing and health and beauty sit in the distance? I think about the Gladwell’s article stating most people take a right when they go into the store and how this isn’t an option in this store. Although I am with my wife, who I feel is a sensible shopper and not drawn into gimmicks, I find us walking left despite the women’s clothing ahead. Entering health and beauty, a variety of people are sprinkled throughout the different aisles. Families, couples, and single men and women. I notice women comparing products and prices of make-up, toothpaste, and lotion; while men just find the first deodorant display and throw it into their shopping basket. I remember the article at this point describing the differences in men and women’s shopping habits. “Women have more patience than men,” and “Men are more distractible.”

Continuing I see every section of the store is clearly marked; health and beauty, baby, grocery, home essentials, etc., but doesn’t seem to be laid out in a specific order like a grocery store which makes you walk the perimeter to collect your necessities. Could it be the fact that when you go to Target you need a plethora of different items and end up making a loop around the perimeter or waltzing up and down the aisles with your Starbuck’s venti iced caramel macchiato because the atmosphere is strangely inviting? The displays are warm and eye-catching, tempting everyone to stop and glance even if they have no need for the item. They invite and distract consumers to pause and brush against different fabrics and materials. A living room presentation in the home section has people of all ages stopping to touch downy pillows, sit on the oversized chairs, and analyze metallic knick-knacks. In the back corner of the store, opposite of the entrance, is the seasonal section. I think of this as being zone four and have thought back to every section and display I’ve since passed to get here. All the superfluous distractions I’ve gone by to arrive at the new grill, patio set, and pool toys I need as summer is finally here.

I take a moment to really analyze the individuals in this area, as it’s crawling with people; mostly families. Children are drawn to mesh bags of beach toys and brightly colored pool floats in the shapes of pizza and flamingos. They request items and even state their case as to why they need it, “our old shovels have broken because that rocky beach,” “my floaty from last year has a hole in it,” and “sparklers are so cool!” They are quite persuasive. Even husbands state cases for needing a new grill or cooler with a radio, USB plug, and bottle cap removing combination. “Honey, look! You can ride it!” He sits on the motorized cooler and steers his way down the aisle, I chuckle as this is something I can see myself doing. It seems that most women are the “wallet carriers” in this particular store. The store is swarming with employees, yet I don’t see them interacting with customers. None of them ask if they can help someone with anything, except in electronics. I notice many of the employees being college students or older people, perhaps supplementing income. They don’t seem invested in selling anything, I assume they don’t get commission either. I think of Gladwell stating, “beneath the pleasure and the frivolity of the shopping experience runs an undercurrent of manipulation, and that anxiety has rarely seemed more justified than today.” This statement doesn’t seem accurate with this store as the employees aren’t hounding and pressuring customers. However, they are somewhat helpful as an elderly woman asks, “where can I find the canning jars?”

In conclusion, I found myself paying more attention to the advertising and product placement than I ever have before. I used to just saunter around the store helping locate items on the list, rather than think about where things are in a store or how high or low something is on a shelf based on adults and children’s wants and needs. It’s eerie to think that everything we buy is recorded and sold to market-research firms, our behaviors recorded and analyzed through tiny cameras in the ice cream freezers. I suppose these analysts will forever be “awed by the infinite complexity and the ultimate mystery of human behavior.”

 

After reading “The Science of Shopping” I learned that product placement is a key detail. You want to keep things out of the decompression zone. Creating an inviting space such as tables of sweaters laid out like food on a table gives shoppers an interactive, sensory experience. Grocery stores force you to make a loop around the perimeter of the store by separating necessities like dairy, meat, and produce. This makes consumers buy items they may not have intended to buy or that weren’t on the list. Make-up counters have gone from being encased in glass to be an interactive play area where consumers can touch and try on. Sale staff’s actions such as adding to a sale were noted. One employee was helpful in giving his belt to a customer, but then the customer had to return it. Had he given a belt from the accessory display the customer would have most likely bought an add on. I read about men and women shopping differently and how stores are privy to this and set up their displays accordingly. For instance, men have less patience and are easily distracted so, “men’s socks are near shoes and between pants and the register, so he can grab them easily as he rushes to pay.” While “women’s accessories are by fitting rooms because they’re more likely to try pants on then choose a bag or belt.” In general, basic staples are in the back of the store to compel shoppers to walk to zones three and four.

I think it’s incredible that you’ve lived in one place for your entire life, that’s something I can’t relate to. You gave great details in your first two paragraphs. I really felt like I was walking through your house and seeing things through your eyes. I pictured your family sitting around the oval table for a holiday gathering. The message I got from your piece was that you were proud of your home; the pictures, the trophies, and the medals. You described it as being lived in, as a home full of people and family gatherings should be. I like the lines “the rocking chair could no longer be trusted with human weight,” “deck has seen better days with chipped wood and creaking floorboards,” and “flooring with major scratches and scuffs.” I picture all the family gatherings that have caused the wear and tear in your home. Think about a transition between your second and third paragraphs. It was a little confusing because you were describing your house in specific detail in the first two paragraphs then it switched to a party. Your most successful aspects were definitely the first two paragraphs. They were full of sensory details that put me on a virtual tour of your house. Overall good first draft.

Growing up in a military family I moved around often; Norfolk, Virginia, Charleston, South Carolina, Newport, Rhode Island, and returned to Charleston before my father retired. We moved back to Buffalo, New York (by far my favorite place we ever lived), my parents’ hometown, for four years. My father’s job transferred him to Ohio where I lived for ten years, but never felt like home. I’ve since lived in Massachusetts for nine years. I’ve accomplished a personal goal and purchased a home of my own and as proud as I am, it hasn’t encompassed the true meaning of home. To me, home is family and the traditions you have with them. Moving around – you know the military thing – we never had our extended family near us. Now living in Massachusetts, I still have no family near me. The four years of living in New York and every trip I take to New York for Christmas is the epitome of home.

As I travel west on Interstate 90 I make a list in my head of everything I want to do while spending my few days in New York. I know I must stop at Anchor Bar for my customary lunch of chicken wings with blue cheese, maybe a beef on weck if I’ve hit traffic from a snow storm and I’m starving. I plan which morning to go to Paula’s donuts to get their exclusive peanut stick donut – drenched in glaze and rolled in crushed up peanuts, it’s honestly heaven and the best donut I’ve ever eaten. I know I must stop at Wegman’s; the bakery for my favorite rye bread and to get another jar of Weber’s horseradish mustard to add to my pantry as a backup. These are the things that taste like home.

Christmas Eve, my favorite holiday, one of the biggest get togethers my family celebrates. I have been going to the same party with the same people every year for as long as I can remember. Aunts and uncles, cousins, parents, siblings, grandchildren, growing more each year. We all squeeze into whoever is hosting the party that year’s house. Covering couches, recliners, dining room chairs that have been scattered into spare openings, and every available square inch of the living room floor. Surrounding the Christmas tree, we laugh, we eat, we share stories of the loved ones who are no longer with us, it’s togetherness that feels like home.

My aunt writes a silly story every year with the words left and right in it and we all hold our gift-wrapped candy of different shapes and sizes ready to pass at her command. It turns into a cluster of contorting your arms in different directions to pass, children getting mixed up with their left and right, and some people ending up with two packages in their hand. It’s a mess and fantastic all at the same time. Again, with the laughter, she ends her story and we tear open our packages to see if we got lucky. Of course, there’s switching and the occasional bribe that happens.

It’s nothing fancy, some people dress up, while others are comfy to allow for the extra cookies. We eat, more than once, snack, graze, even gorge ourselves. The same deli platters from Wegman’s cover the table every year, crock pots find a home near every available outlet – their covers lean haphazardly against them. Deserts, I mean honestly, an obscene amount that should never be offered to one person in one day, ever, are everywhere. Cookies, cakes, truffles, pies, in tins on the coffee table, travel containers in the kitchen, and platters on the dining table. The bar is littered with abandoned red solo cups and sharpie markers. We all try uncle’s crazy egg nog concoction, even if we haven’t quite reached our 21^st birthday.

It’s different now than it was when I was a kid, but I still look forward to it just the same. The absurd amounts of fresh fallen snow have a whimsical feel. I’m not sure if snow has a smell or how you would even describe it, but, it does when I’m there. It smells fresh and untouched. As I run is stocking feet on the back porch to get a beer I hear the trains on the railroad tracks. All these things are the culmination of what home is to me. I want nothing more than to keep this tradition alive and pass it along to my children because it truly feels like home.

Unknowingly, I stumble upon the small town via one of two stoplights. The straight stretch of road that brings me in contains life’s necessities: the village post office, police and fire station, single gas station, and convenience store. As the sound of crashing waves pulls me in, I stroll down the block descending in elevation. The air, pregnant with the smell of salt signals my arrival by the seaside. I see the old village store and The Inn where I treat myself to an old-timey libation. As I purchase my ice cream I can’t help but find myself sitting on the worn and uneven rocks surrounding the dock. I sit and admire both the perfections:  as I take in the wide-open sea with the company of my loved ones, the scenery alone can take me on a journey of my own or in full conversation reminiscing of summers past; and imperfections of the atmosphere: seaweed and rust stains from cleats that have since been replaced cover the surface.

Quickly finishing the last few dripping bites of my ice cream; my feet become damp and sand-covered from my walk to clear my fingers of my indulgence. Walking across the sprawling green grass of the town square, home base of the village makes me visualize the field of tents that make up the annual Harbor Days, the music from the Friday night car shows fills the air taking me back decades, the starting line of the annual 5K catches my eye. I ascend upon the lighthouse where I stare across the never-ending horizon of jewel-blue water. Still or rippling gently, the sailboats mimic the motion of the water and consume the surface of the harbor. Masts sink into the morning fog and stand tall in the evening, reflecting the pink and orange sunset that covers the sky. Glimpses of iridescent seashells catch my eye, half-buried in the sand. The sweatshirt I once carried now covers my skin, clammy with briny air. My pockets now become homes to the unique shells I gather as my feet shuffle through the grains of sand. The sights and sounds of the sea remind me that I am home.

“This Old House”

The theme seems to be appreciating history rather than value in possessions and looking at things through different eyes.

Three specific details that gave sharp image:

“a cold and forsaken place where people stayed indoors and plotted the death of knobs.”

“Some might have found it shabby – “a dump” my father would eventually call it – but, unless you ate them, a few thousand paint chips never hurt anyone.”

“I’d come home after a full fay of work – my clothes smelling of wet garbage, my shoes squishy with dishwater –  and find her sitting on my bed, or standing like a zombie behind my door.”

My name is Jon and I’m an expecting father of a baby boy due in August. My wife is a teacher and is helpful in providing her feedback on pieces I write. I enjoy reading when I can find a spare moment, however, working as an engineer and completing home renovations take up much of my time when I’m not doing school work.

I’ve always enjoyed writing and found it as a stress reliever. Writing has come naturally to me since I was a child. I appreciate writing about personal experiences because it’s roughly a way of reliving the positive and sometimes learning from the negatives. I feel writing things down gets them out of your head, hence my constant need to make lists.

I like to write things down and edit several times before ever typing it out on the computer. I find it easier to organize my thoughts and feel it’s more concrete to see things on paper. I appreciate writing as it forces me to expand my vocabulary both in writing and in conversation.

I hope to strengthen my essay skills while taking this class.