Journal Entry “An Entrance to the Woods"

BY WENDELL BARRY

Wendell Barry was born in Kentucky and lived on both east coast and west. After living on both coast he returned to his native hometown. Although, Lopate writes the he rarely shows humor or even irony he is well regarded by his fellow nature writes as a saint. According to Lopate Barry has made lifelong efforts to protect the earth’s ecological balance.
An Entrance to the Woods was a sheer delight to read. I read it twice. He captured so many moments I had in my own entrance to the woods when our class went on our nature field trip. The morning was brilliant and warm, absolutely still. When he writes, “Even more discomforting is a pervasive sense of unfamiliarity.” It was as if we took a walk together through the woods because this is exactly how I felt. And uneasy as it felt it did pass as I walked through the woods leaving school, worries, and pressures behind, becoming completely “naked” emotionally; immersing myself in what I was not.
I heard no sounds but the sounds of the woods. Although, as Barry I could hear an occasional plane fly over and the train whistle blowing. I was so very happy the whole entire day walking and reflecting in the woods. When reading this essay I have many notes in the margins of my book because I had such a vibrant conversation with Barry. This is how I want to connect with my audience. This was my favorite essay of the three assigned to read.

Journal Entry “OF BOOKS”

MICHEL de MONTAIGNE

Montaigne was a 15th century Essayist. Lopate thinks that Montaigne may have been the greatest essayist who ever lived. He came from wealth on both his mother and father’s side. Montaigne father raised him to speak only Latin for the first six years of his life. This was to insure his lifelong attachment to classical literature. He studied law and practiced it until he was thirty-eight years old. Reading Montaigne I could not help but wonder if the elements of a personal essay was not taken from his structure of his essays.
He was a pure radical; he wrote what he actually thought about not what he was supposed to think. This works for me. Lopate writes, Montaigne is not always “politically correct,” but he did have the courage to think things out for himself. He has many attributes an Essayist that I like and will emulate. Part of his success was his ability to see himself as an average human being in spite of his vast amount of education and wealth. One of his most radical practices was to follow his thoughts no matter where they led him.
In the essay “Of Books” Montaigne, said “ If I encounter difficulties in reading, I do not gnaw my nails over them; I leave them there, after making one of two attacks on the. -What I do not see at the first attack, I see less by persisting. I do nothing without gaiety.” This is exactly how I approach my reading. But when I have an assigned reading and this happens I persevere through it but it still becomes painful to do.
Like Montaigne, I too want only to become wiser-and for a writer to begin with the conclusion and make their point. Overall, I like Montaigne frankness, transparency and his allowance to see what he is thinking whether it is politically correct or not.

Journal Entry: "SEEING"

BY ANNNIE DILLARD

In Lopate’s introduction to Dillard, he writes, “Dillard is a self-described seeker, a pilgrim in a mission to retrieve a sense of ecstatic wonder before the natural world. “I have had an idea in mind for an essay of my own: one about looking at my own world, my world as a mother through eyes like Annie Dillard.

Lopate writes, “Dillard is fascinated with silence, with the muteness of things, and her work surges up from that mystery and returns to it. Before learning TM I used to have the useless interior babble that kept me from seeing. Since learning TM I like Dillard is fascinated with silence.

I like how Dillard uses the sense of sight and talks about it while using other senses. Dillard writes, “But there is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go. When I see this way I stay transfixed and emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the difference between walking with and without a camera. When I walk with a camera I walk from shot to shot, - When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment’s light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this way I am above all an unscrupulous observer. Dillard is referring to holding onto the past and not staying in the moment, the present.

Overall, as an Essayist, Dillard’s writing style when compared to Wendell Berry’s does not feel personal enough to me as with I was able to have a conversation with Barry while reading ‘An Entrance to the Woods” but I had a hard time staying connected with her through out the reading.

On My Path to Enlightenment

BY THERESA GOLDEN

Christianity was the religion given to me. Without a doubt I was my mother’s “why” child. Growing up, I had several questions about its doctrine. However, I rarely received any answers that satisfied my curiosity about it. My family was Baptist and they went to church frequently, which is true for many African Americans. I was always told to never question God. This did not make sense to me, because as a child, my thoughts were, “if God knew all things” as I was told he did, why shouldn’t I be able to ask questions of him.

I was a Christian for 32 years and still asked as many questions as I did when I was young. One time I remember asking a minister, “if God is a ‘just God, as you and others say he is, then why is there so much poverty and suffering in the world?” the minister’s answer was, “Just keep praising God, and you will be bless with all Gods riches.” Now, this answer made no sense to me, and it really confused my simple, little logical mind even more.

As a child I would always hear my mother, and the many members of our church, praying to God, to better the conditions of African Americans. Even though conditions had gotten better, there were fundamental conditions of African Americans I felt still needed drastic changes. I thought if it was that simple, (the minister’s answer) why wasn’t God hearing their prayers. Couldn’t God see the same conditions that I saw as a child?

When I would ask such questions I was quickly hushed. I was told I was blasphemy, which would send me to hell, and all I needed to do was believe that God would work everything out in his own time. So I finally hushed and became the “good Christian” the preacher implied that I should be. Although, this went on for years into my adult life, my questions never went away because no one really ever answered them.

Eventually, I fell in love with my high school sweetheart and got married. I joined the church that he had been a member of, since childhood. His church had a rule, that if you got married, and your spouse did not join the church, the member would be excommunicated. He was more attached to his church than I was to mine. I wanted us to worship together as a family therefore I joined his church, so he wouldn’t get kicked out. Disappointingly, this church was even worst about listening to your questions and a willingness to answer them than mine. I recalled asking one of the elder ministers, “if we are children of God, wouldn’t that make us all little gods?” He looked at me as if I had cursed him. But to my surprise, he answered and said, “yes, but we cant’ tell that to everyone because they would not understand it.” At this moment I knew it was time to go out, and get my own answers, find my own truth.

It was the winter of 1987 when our family moved to southern California. We packed up our three children ages eleven seven and three and headed for the airport in Milwaukee Wisconsin. We said our goodbyes and everyone was very sad to see us leave. But I wasn’t worried about leaving because I knew we were coming back home to visit as much as we could, because we value our family relationships very much.

When we finally arrived in Los Angeles California, I immediately started looking for a job. I wanted work that would give me flexibility in my schedule. One day I went looking for work and meet this gentleman that was selling nail system machines. These machines provided an alternative and more healthy way for nail technicians to apply nail lacquer product to nails, as oppose to using the strong acrylic stuff that many nail salons were using. These nail systems were being distributed by independent representatives. (Network Marketing) I listen to his marketing plan, which sounded very lucrative, and I signed up to be an independent consultant.

Fortunately, I had done quite a bit of network marketing ventures before moving to California, so I knew the ropes of selling and recruiting to potential consumers and distributors. The gentleman, did something that I thought was quite different and strange to Network Marketing; he gave me a list of potential customer that he had, and said to me, “since you just move to California, and you may not know anyone in the area yet. You can use this list to get started,”

So, the very first person I called from that list he gave me was a woman named Kathy Wayne. When the phone rang she answered it, and I said, “Hi may I please speak to Kathy?” she said, “this is Kathy” I explained to her how I got her name and number, and she remembered meeting the gentleman who gave me her information. I then asked, “When can we get together so I can show this new innovative nail system?” She said, “Well, when I spoke to him I was really interested in the business opportunity. Because I am looking to supplement my income.” I then said, Wow! That is great I am looking for people to join my team.” So we set up the appointment and I hang up the phone excited that I received such a great response with my first call. And the first person I called was interested in the business opportunity, and had not yet, seen the marketing plan. Unfortunately, I did not get the same response from the rest of the list. But I was so excited about meeting Kathy that I wasn’t fazed by it one bit.

Coming from a small town like Racine, I was extremely nervous about driving in a big city like Los Angeles. It did not matter because I was more anxious to meet Kathy who sounded so upbeat on the phone I couldn’t wait to see her. Driving on the LA city streets was no problem; it was the freeways I was nervous about. It was a good thing I didn’t have to drive to far on the freeway before I reached my exit. I was driving much slower than most of the other drivers, and boy was I was getting some of the dirtiest looks while drivers would speed around my car to get in front of me. This was okay with me, because my main purpose and concerned was getting to my final destination without any fender benders, and in one piece.

Kathy lived on Robinson Street in Los Angeles. I don’t recall the address but I remember it was light tan stucco colored trimmed in green seven-unit apartment building, and her apartment was facing the street. I parked my car and walked up to the door, and to my surprise this petite and beautiful African American women, whose’ skin was flawless, opens the door before I get a chance to knock. As she opened the door, with the same vibrancy I heard on the phone, she said ‘Hi, I am Kathy, I am so happy to meet you.” She then asked, “did you have any trouble finding my place?” and I said, “No, but it was a little nerve-racking driving on that freeway” We both laugh and she invited me in.

Kathy had a very small studio apartment. Although it was small it had style. The décor was contemporary, and the color scheme was black, white and red. The kitchen area had an Asian styled black lacquered divider that separated it from her sleeping area. In her main living room stood this pearl white wooden, two feet tall box that sat on a matching four feet long table that was adorn with a water cup, an incense holder, a fruit bowl, which were all made out of crystal. There were two beautiful flawless cut crystal vases placed on each side of the box each vase holding large eucalyptus foliage, which left the apartment smelling incredibly refreshing. All this was beautiful, but what impressed me the most about this woman was, there was a young boy sitting on the sofa. I thought it was her son, but it was not. As it turned out, Kathy was taking care of her friend’s son who is a special needs child. She was giving his mother some “me time” As a young mother my self at time this act of kindness won my heart.

Looking at the two feet box on the table, I asked Kathy, “What is that”? She said, “Oh! That is my altar and the box is my butsadan. The scroll inside the box is my Gohonzon. I am a Buddhist, and I practice Nicihren Daishonin Buddhism. I chant Nam myoho renge kyo.” Have you heard of it? I said no, as I attempted to repeat Nam- myoho- renge- kyo, “N-a-m- m-yo-ho---what?” I was really messing it up so I stopped trying to say it. We both laughed. So, she then repeated it about four to five times, enunciating the words very slowly for me, as I repeated along with her.

Now, I had never met an African American Buddhist before. Matter- of- fact, I didn’t know any existed. And if I had met one, they weren’t as forward and proud about it, as Kathy was, to proclaim it. I notice how bright her life condition was and how opened she was about her practice. Her openness made me extremely curious about learning more about it.

Consequently, this lead to hours of dialogue about Buddhism, the organization she was affiliated with, (Soka Gakkai that means value creating and why she started practicing this Buddhism. One of the statements Kathy made that pulled me into such a long dialogue was; “In Nicihren Buddhism we believe the purpose of life is to be happy” I had not really been happy for a quite a while. So, there I was totally engaged, with all ears opened, along with a full-fledged willingness to continue the dialogue. I completely forgot about selling her anything and time stood still. (This happens when you are in dharma)

After the long hours of dialogue she invited me to one of their Buddhist discussion meetings and I whole heartily accepted the invitation. I wanted to know more about this philosophy, and since I wasn’t getting any answers from my practice of Christianity; I decided that night to check out what this Nicihren Buddhism was all about. I realized, it was ultimately, my responsibility to find my own spiritual path, and move away from the given one.

We both said goodnight to each other, and I embraced her, while thanking her for sharing her faith with me. As I was walking away from her door realizing I had just spent literally hours at her place and did not make a sale or recruit her to start my team I began to wonder How I was I going to explain this encounter to my husband.

This whole experience on the relative was; I left my apartment looking to sell a nail machine or a business opportunity to Kathy. However, the absolute was, at the core of it all, my life was looking for truth. I was tired of not getting my questions answered and my previous religion was not satisfying me any longer. Consequently this business opportunity led me to Nicihren Buddhism, which I have been practicing for eighteen years. And I will forever be indebted to Kathy Wayne for having the courage to share this Buddhist practice with me. Thus helping me to find my own spiritual path that has led me to Transcendental Meditation. This meditation has helped to reawaken my desire to know the truth even more, and has restored the connection to Self, that is the deep contentment inside. “I have come home.”

A Tribute to My Mother

BY THERESA GOLDEN

My mother was born in 1930 in Okolona MS, during the white/colored only era, and like Jim’s mother she grew up in the Great Depression. Now, The depression hit African Americans extremely hard. Many African Americans were already living in poverty. She grew up with ten siblings in Tupelo MS a small southern country town. Her late father Willie Hamilton, who I think my mother is like in many ways, yet she disagrees with that opinion, was a very no-nonsense kind of guy. According to my mom, my grandmother Mary Elizabeth was constantly afraid for her male children’s lives especially my grandfathers’. As a result, eventually ended up migrating up north in 1955 (I was three months old) to Wisconsin because my mom’s younger brother refused to placate the whites that were calling them niggers, and white men were always threatening him
My mother’s parents were the first generation coming out of slavery. Her father was born in 1902. However, my mother said, “the state did not keep very good records of the births of African Americans back then so it may not be the correct date.” Her parents were sharecroppers in Mississippi. A sharecropper is a tenant farmer who gives a share of the crops raised to the landlord as rent. Now she would told my siblings and I a story about how her parents did not have money to get the seeds, shovels, and other supplies needed for planting. So they had to purchase everything from the landlord. He would then at the time of harvest take most of the crops that were raised; telling the tenant farmers that they broke even thus leaving them with minimum food to feed their families. She shared many stories like this one about what they went through with this whole sharecropping situation, I would always say, “ That sounds like slavery to me.” And my mother ‘s response would be, “that’s exactly what it was, slavery! And we never could get ahead doing this so my parents moved the family to the city of Tupelo Ms (Elvis’s home town) for better opportunities. ”
You see, I am my mother’s “mini me” My mother was very candid, prideful and sometimes comical when she told us stories about the old south. The comical ones were always about how her parents would out smart the whites and the prideful ones were about how they stood up for themselves in the Deep South. As I reflect on the stories she once told us I couldn't’t help but to think the stories were lessons for us. One lesson being, that we came from a strong lineage. However, she would usually end her stories by saying “Now, there were some good white folks but the good ones were afraid of what the bad ones would do to them, so it didn’t help us much especially when we really needed it.” There was sometimes sadness in her voice when she would tell my siblings and me these stories. I believe the other lesson was, she wanted us to no how they were treated by the whites in the south, but she did not want us to have any hatred in our heart against them. She had a motto: “Treat people like you want to be treated.”
My mother was married at the age of seventeen to my brothers’ father. He was an alcoholic and after three children she decided to cut her losses and leave him. My siblings and I had different fathers. Now, this is where I am not sure how my father and mother hooked up. Though she never talked about him much; she never spoke negatively about him either. He was sort of a mystery man for most of my life. I meet him for the first time when I was eight years old.
He arrived one afternoon when my cousin and I were playing outside in front of my mothers’ beauty salon. He pulled in this navy blue car (don’t know what type) and my aunt’s husband was with him. They parked the car and my cousin and I ran up to the car. I said to my uncle Calvin, “Uncle Calvin whose car are you driving “ he said, “It ‘s your fathers.” I thought he was playing around with me, because he was a real jokester. So I said, “he ain't my daddy “ and ran in the shop yelling, “Mom this man outside in the car with Uncle Calvin, is talking about, he’s my daddy” She looked out the window and said “That is your dad” I stood there surprised but happy. I was happy because I finally got a chance to see the man, who my mother said on several occasions that I was just like. I was surprised because he finally came to see me.
My mother was a single parent and an entrepreneur. She believed in working for herself. She repeatedly told us to create our own business. My mother got this drive from my grandmother who owned her own restaurant, and her uncles who had their own businesses. (i.e. Corner grocery store, tavern, and haulage business) It was very hard as a child to see how hard she worked, but she played both roles of father and mother quite well. I remember my brothers and I for years bought her a father’s day card, and a mother’s day card.
There were seven years difference in me and my older brother’s age and me and my younger sisters age. My oldest brothers and I were the most responsible of the five of us. So we pretty much ran the household. I was nine years old when I learned how to cook and do laundry. My mother worked twelve to sixteen hour days. Many a times she would not stop to eat. So I would go in the shop and would say to the customers that were waiting to get their hair groomed, “I am sorry but my mom have to stop, and eat her food right now.” If she would not come upstairs to our apartment then I would take the plate of food to her in the shop. Her female customers really understood, and on many occasions one of them said, “That is really sweet of you to make sure your mother eats, Ludie this child really loves you.” What most of them did not know, was that she had created this habit, of not taking any breaks to stop and eat. She didn’t take breaks, because she did not want the customers, to have to wait too long before servicing them. My mom enjoyed her work but physically it was challenging because she stood on her feet most of the time.
My mother was an excellent provider for her family. My siblings and I ere never homeless, we always had food to eat, and strangely enough she was not keen on us kids eating a lot of meat. In spite of this, we enjoyed her great chicken casseroles. My mom would show me how to make a dish, and after that it was my responsibility to do it by myself. We had fashionable clothes because I learned how to sew to help her save money on buying us clothes. She bought me my first singer sewing machine one year for my birthday. I sewed on it until I married and moved out I bought my own.
I was very close to my mother being the only girl for seven years I bonded with her since we were the only two females in our household. But watching her work such long hours made me very sad. So I would help her as much as I could by cooking our family meals, taking turns doing the laundry, cleaning up the shop, (washing and sterilizing the combs and brushes, laundering the towels, sweeping and moping the floor) Even though I did a lot of work around the house and in the beauty shop, somehow I managed to be an excellent student in school. I did not want to give my mother any trouble because I felt she had enough challenges to deal with.
My mother is very courageous, faithful, loyal, resilient, loving, (in her own unique stoic way) nurturing, kind, and resourceful, as well as, a powerful woman. She never took no for an answer to something she was attempting to do, and it involved needing some assistance from others. She would say, “No, just means find another way to do it.” As a single parent it took courage to raise five children. She elicited help from her father and brothers, who were the male figure in our home.
Her resourcefulness and thriftiness I contribute to growing up in the depression era. But that experience surely helped her to be the best single parent on the planet. I remember when she bought the building that housed her business in Racine WI. She wanted to be available to her children so she purchased a building that had a two-bedroom apartment attached to it. So we lived in the back and she worked in the front. (Which by the way we could never play hooky from school because she was always there!) She bought this building on land contract and I was with her when she paid the last payment to the realtor. She was so happy and I knew she would buy more property because she always used to tell us that the best businesses to be in were real estate, food, and clothing. Her rationale was this, “People always need a place to live, they need food to eat and clothes to wear.”
My mother is a very spiritual, practical and simple woman. I am lot like her in this way. Although, there is eloquence in her practicality and simplicity she really didn’t care much about being fashionable, so she would put on anything as long as it was clean. This is where my mom and I are relatively different. We would frequently exchange words with each other about her lack of interest in fashion. I would say, “Mom you have to care more about how you look because you are a business women in this city and you have to look presentable.” her response would be, “I ‘m clean and my clothes look decent to me and if people are going to judge me by how fashionable I look then they are not worthy of doing business with me or being my friend.” These kinds of conversations went on quite often with no change on her part. So, I started to make her clothes and shop for her. Maybe it had more to do with my feelings of embarrassment in seeing her in mix match clothes than what others felt or thought. In fact because she was a community activist, she knew many of the residents and the community loved her very much, our house was always filled with the neighborhood kids, and they all called her Ma-dear.
Education was a value that we both share. My mother only had an eight-grade education. She finished “beauty school” as she calls it, because the standards for black higher education facilities were not very high. When she was forty years of age she later went on to get her high school diploma. She sent my oldest brother to college, and he obtained his MA in Business Administration. After I finished high school I went to Gateway Tech College to study Cosmetology. Hummm-I wonder where that influence came from. When I was in elementary school I told my mother I wanted to be a teacher, but she ignored that and insisted that this would be a good fall back occupation because it is recession proof. (This worry probably comes from her post traumatic stress from the Depression) She was right I end up using these skills many times. But I did not mind going to Cosmetology School because I was learning the theory behind all the practical work I had done in the salon during my youth.
My mom was extremely proud and happy when I told her I was going back to school to get my bachelor degree. She said, I always wanted to go to college but my life took another path.” Such as motherhood and entrepreneurship. “ It is so funny how our lives have been parallel to each other. I entered college at the age of fifty after raising my children. Fortunately I choose a husband who was a partner in raising our children.
As I reflect on my life growing up in Racine Wisconsin, I have an enormous amount of appreciation for my mother who provided us with a very decent and comfortable life. Actually my siblings and I used to say, “we never knew we were poor because all our needs were meet.” It wasn’t until we started going to school outside of our neighborhood that we saw a difference. Now, I know without any doubts that it was my mothers exemplary example and my respectful relationship with her that without a doubt has made me the woman, the mother, the world citizen that I am today.
When I started writing this essay there was many times I was overcome with tears of thanks and appreciation for this remarkable woman's' influenced in my life from conception to my fullest development. Maharishi ‘s fondest saying is “Mother is at Home” and I can say it and literally mean it as well, because for her children, and everyone in our community. My mother was always at home.

The Way to Rainy Mountains

BY M. SCOTT MOMADAY

In this essay Scott Momaday eloquently introduced his grandmother. I really felt like he was sharing this story personally to me. His grandmother played a significant role in his life from childhood to adulthood. Her name was Aho belonging to the last culture to evolve in North America. He gives the historical landscape of Aho's life and her culture background. The human conditions that she and her people went through were pretty astonishing. When Momaday writes, "in order to save themselves they surrendered to the soldiers at Fort Sill and were imprisoned." I could not help but think of the injustice that the Native Americans received was totally inhuman.
Momaday telling this dtory about his grandmother was actual a history lesson for me. The Native Americans stories were not taught in the schools I attended. Thank goodness for Essayists that write about their lives and share the historical accounts of family history this in this case gives insight into the culture of a people who were exterminated. My favorite part in the essay was him describing the different postures but the one he most remember was of his grandmother's praying. This was very touching.
"Long rambling prayers out of suffering and hope."This is what Momaday said about his grandmother's prayers. I think suffering is what makes one hope. The last time he see her is in the fondest position but she was standing praying. He could not understand the family's native language KIOWA therefore he wasn't able to understand her prayers. I feel they were both connected through unity consciousness consequently he could inherently hear the sorrow and understand the sadness. I bet she was because of losing her culture to a pseudo one.
I share a similar family experience with Momaday in that I come from a large family on my mother's side and as a child I played with my cousins at family reunions and gatherings throughout the year. Unlike his family the singing was from both the old and the young.We had lots of food my grandmother was a great cook and taught all eight of her daughters hoe to cook very well. I believe the reason why I could relate to this story so much is because my grandfather was part Native American ancestry,his mother was from the Cherokee tribe. I remember seeing a picture of her,and her hair was parted down the middle. She had two long silky white braids that lay on her shoulders like a shawl. it is funny how this story brought back so many memories of my extended family especially my grandparents. Maybe that is why I could relate to his story so much.

BY SARA VOWELL

This essay was quite an interesting read. In the beginning, Sarah Vowell writes about her father, and how different the two of them are. But, after reading the first six paragraphs I began to see how much the two of them were more alike than Vowell was willing to admit. I thought it was very cleaver,how in the very first paragraph, she used what she did not like,(i.e.subscription to Guns & Ammo) or did not do,(i.e. plaster NRA stickers on car) to describe which one was the Republican, and which one was the Democrat.
As I read on, I was thinking they both are actually artist. One uses their artistic expression in a creative and constructive way and the other in a more destructive way. She used her pen for creative expression and making guns was his way of expressing his creativity.
As a parent I really had a hard time reading this essay without judging the father's behavior,his glorification of violence and terrorism,and his obsession with guns. Why would he teach his children to handle a firearm at such a young age.(6yrs old) Even though they were twins,they were completely different. According to Vowell, Amy loved the backyard shooting experience,and she hated it. Vowell said her and Amy had no say in the matter of having to shoot the gun, and that it was her father's choice. However,later in the essay, she contradicts herself by saying both her parents were "hell-bent on letting them make their own choices.
The whole Bozeman story was really upsetting to me. especially the part about the Bozeman merchants leaving the Indians cyanide laced fresh baked bread to poison them. To be perfectly honest,the father did not strike me as a man of integrity. Telling his violent filled family stories with such pride makes me question his state of consciousness.
The Quantrill story about riding into Lawrence, Kansas in 1863 flying a black flag commanding his men to kill every male and burn down every house was just despicable.Her dad equated American history, family history(not a good one i.e. murderers)and firearms. As we can observe Republicans are now having "Tea Parties" all over the nation and people are showing up with their guns and firearms.The argument is President Obama is trying to take their American country away from them, and they want it back.Maybe many of these people that are showing up at these rallies had a father like Vowell. One who put a gun in their hands at six years old. The influence of our parents is with us from birth, and throughout our development into adulthood.
The Bridger Mountain excursion was--- Wow unbelievable. You can not shoot fireworks in the National Forest! But, yet, you can shoot a small cannon? Where is the logic in that? Now,when he shot the cannon, and Vowell said she felt compelled to sing the national anthem, I was thoroughly convinced that she was just like her father whether she realized it or not. It was actually the hiker's comment on her "shotgun microphone,"and it being quite a machine that made her realize how the both of them were the same person.
In the end Vowell insinuated she still did not like guns but the cannon was okay because it is a ceremonial object. I say it is a murder weapons just like the gun,and she and no one else can justify it for their own satisfaction.
I have only one question after reading this essay. Why are so many white American males in love with their firearms? And they teach their children to shoot weapons like it is a "rites of passage?" It was very unsettling to read and difficult to write anything positive about it. As a parent I know first hand how influential you are in your child's life. Therefore it is highly important, to always be continuing to grow in higher states of consciousness and exemplify the best behavior as you possible can for them.