Hello everyone from sunny (and hot; 26 degrees!) Montreal.
I plan to put my samples here at this post before the weekend and will try to provide at least two different ways to begin. Remember to took at the three samples you received with your assignment for ideas on how to begin. In the meantime, why not read two example essays written by students in previous semesters.
The first one, "Her Smile," is the most popular student writing in the history of the Pearson ALC. Read it to see why.
The second, "Grandpa's Shoes," is an anonymous submission from a student who, previous to attending my classes, had difficulty with longer form writing--not any more!
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First version influenced by the beginning of "Life Lessons from My Uncle Charlie."
I know my friend John wasn’t perfect, but when hiking with him one summer it sure seemed that way.
“How far are we from the lake?” I asked him as I rested, panting from the effort of climbing up the steep side of a rocky outcrop, a fifty-pound pack on my back, its straps digging into my shoulders painfully.
“Just around the corner,” he replied, pointing at the map with a small stick (as was his habit). “It should be right here. We can definitely camp there for the night.”
I trusted him that day and indeed we found the lake before nightfall, but barely. There was only one spot on its shore that could fit our tent, and John had found it. By the time we had set up camp for the night and found a suitable bear “hang,” it was getting dark. I remember sitting on the granite shoreline in my old camp running shoes, my feet throbbing from 10 hours on the trail, appreciating the fading light over the high mountains of Strathcona Park.
John was the best hiking partner a man could have, especially in those days when dead reckoning with a map and compass was the norm. He would stand and point at the surrounding peaks and say, “See that? That knob over there?” I would try to imagine what he was seeing, most often without success.
Helping me to see what was right in front of me was one of John’s gifts. We were off-trail hikers, preferring the challenge of finding our way through high mountain passes. He would often joke about a “cliffy” bit after we had climbed a particularly difficult section. The year we found that lake together we had followed instructions written by mountaineers who had warned us about the terrain being a bit “bushy.”
Apparently that meant slogging through avalanche willows for hours up steep slopes. This kind of willow deals with heavy snow by bending over and lying flat on the ground. In early summer, before they have sprung back up again, they lie, wet and slippery. One false step and you go down, sliding helplessly down the hill you are climbing.
But John never complained. On every hike (for 11 consecutive summers) he marched on with me following along behind him, stopping occasionally to consult his map and compass, waiting impatiently for me to catch up to him again. As soon as I had and he’d informed me of our new location he set off again. I’d shake my head, shoulder my pack, struggle back to my feet and silently curse his drive to get to our destination.
Any time I felt I could not continue a step longer, John encouraged me—and the truth of it is that he showed me what I could do with perseverance and courage.
472 words; first half of a 900 to 1000-word essay.
In this version, I begin with a specific incident that leads to the thesis I have about John’s influence on my life. Hard to imagine that a guy who rode a bicycle across Canada in 40 days at 19 years old would need that influence, but it is true. He died 12 years ago this January but in writing this today it seems as fresh as if it happened recently. I will try a new version in the next day or two.
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