No Tears at a Funeral by Sara Greenblum

No Tears at a Funeral, by Sara Greenblum

No Tears at a Funeral

We were in the car about to go to school when I saw my dad cry for the first and only time. He was standing in the doorway to the garage quietly looking at my mother. My sister and I exchanged a glance, wanting to be in on the gossip but knowing that speaking right now might get us into trouble. We stayed quiet, making funny faces at each other. My sister’s tongue was stuck out between her lips and her eyes were crossed when my dad finally told us that Opa, his father, had died. We knew what death was, we were old enough in second and fourth grade to know what it was, but we did not understand it. We loved our Opa, but he had Alzheimer’s, so our visits to him were short and infrequent. My sister and I celebrated the fact that we could skip school that day and watch cartoons. Later that day we played simon says and colored picture books as we drove the three hours to Titusville, FL to see my Oma and to go to the funeral. When we got there, everyone was crying. People clung to each other, hanging on to fistfuls of clothing. Once ironed clothes had patterns of wrinkled stretching across the black fabric. I could not help but fidget in their presence. I hid in a spare bedroom and played with dolls. No one came to get me. I played for hours until my sister brought me something to eat. The funeral the next day was worse. I hated the itchy black tights and stiff pouffy dress. During the ceremony, I plucked at the beads around my wrist and watched squirrels run across graves. When it was over I saw the small stone grave and watched as one by one everyone placed a rock on the headstone. I was the last person to go up. I found a little heart shaped rock in the grass and placed it in the center, but I never cried.

The Jerusalem Market

I had never been anywhere like this before. There were people brushing past me, people crammed under make-shift tents, people sitting along the corridors, and people shouting. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings littered cloth covered tables and exploded out of glass jars. People haggled in Hebrew over the price of paintings or clothing. I could feel my heart beating from taking in all these new sights and because I had never experienced anything like this before. Turning the corner, I held my purse tighter to my side and grabbed the sleeve of my mother’s shirt. Waves of scents hit me; smells of unidentifiable spices and freshly baked goods filled the air. I loved all the colors best though. Yellows ranging from a light butter color to deep golden browns sat in plastic bins next to reds and greens. The workers at the food stalls let you try anything. Sour candies were followed by savory pies. We wandered through the stalls buying scarves, jewelry, and other objects that my dad deemed a waste of money. He smiled as I talked to the vendors in what Hebrew I know and laughed when eventually I would have to revert back to English. Hours of studying the funny characters in Sunday school were finally paying off. It was hard not to smile though. Everyone was in such a good mood and always was willing to help. An Arab vendor helped an Israeli wind his cart through the labyrinth which was the market. It made me question everything I heard on the news about the two groups hating each other because at least in this market everyone worked together, and played card games together when things were slow.

Oxford University, England

I caught my reflection in a glass window; apprehension was etched into my brow. I quickly rearranged my expression into what I hoped portrayed a little more confidence and headed for gate twenty-seven. With a deep breath I boarded the plane and searched for my seat. I stared out that tiny little window taking my last glimpses of Florida, and then all the other states until all I could see was the vast blue of an ocean beneath me. All around me passengers watched movies and slept. I thought about my parents and how I was going to Oxford University by myself to study Art History over the summer. I tried to quiet my anxieties of being completely on my own for the first time so I could sleep. When I woke up the sun was just rising and my first view of England was surrounded in a brilliant light that even made the airport look like a scene out of a fairy tale. I was completely thrilled when I found a familiar place in the airport; it was a Starbucks, and a very welcoming site to a girl who had barely slept on the plane and who had a newly reset watch telling her it was seven in the morning. That little logo was a small comfort, a little reminder of home in a foreign place. So with my coffee in one hand and suitcase in another I set out to find the bus that would take me to Oxford. We pulled up to Pembroke College. I walked unsteadily down cobblestone streets and walked into countless shops and even a small market. I was so enchanted by the town that I forgot I had no idea where I was or how to get back to my dorm. Relief flooded over me when I spotted a tourist shop where I made my first purchases, a map of Oxford and an umbrella. The umbrella proved more valuable than the map; even with the map my location and destination were still unknown. Shopkeepers pointed me in the right direction until, at last, I found Pembroke.

Camping

My sides hurt. I clutched at my stomach as I rocked back and forth. Tears started to well in my eyes, but I could not help it. I was laughing harder than I had ever laughed before. The ground was hard underneath the thin tent; the blankets and pillows made a messy nest where my three best friends and I talked and laughed throughout the night. No one could understand why we were friends, but we were best friends. I’m not sure how we four came together but, we did. Kelsey was the bombshell. She was tall, hispanic, and always the life of the party. Holly had the temper, but she also had the biggest heart and always was the first to stand in your corner. Dani was goofy. Her funny faces could make a priest crack up. I played every sport in the book and still kept my grades up. While everyone focused on our differences, we focused on what we shared, which was everything. The night we camped in Dani’s backyard, we could see our breath when we breathed. The ground was hard and damp. It was the most fun I have ever had. We laughed about all the crazy things we had done together; how we skipped gym class to walk a mile and half to Publix to buy the good sugar cookies with the sprinkles. Hands fought over cookie crumbs while a bottle of whipped cream was passed around. A pizza box lay empty except for the nibbled crusts. Out of a sea of blankets, a rogue pillow hit my shoulder and I retaliated with an arsenal of chocolate chips. When the boys next door shook our tent and made creepy noises, we grabbed at hands, sweatshirts, and whatever else was in reach to pull us closer together.

 

No Tears at a Funeral - Draft 1

FIRST DRAFT

No Tears at a Funeral

We were in the car about to go to school when I saw my dad cry for the first and only time. He was standing in the doorway to the garage quietly looking at my mother. My sister and I exchanged a glance, wanting to be in on the gossip but knowing that speaking right now might get us into trouble. We stayed quiet, making funny faces at each other. Finally my dad told us that Opa, his father, had died. We knew what death was, we were old enough in second and fourth grade to know what it was, but we did not understand it. My sister and I celebrated the fact that we could skip school that day and watch cartoons. Later that day we played simon says and colored picture books as we drove the three hours to Titusville, FL to see my Oma and to go to the funeral. When we got there, everyone was crying. People clung to each other, hanging on to fistfuls of clothing. I hid in a spare bedroom and played with dolls. No one came to get me. I played for hours until my sister brought me something to eat. The funeral the next day was worse. I hated the itchy black tights and stiff pouffy dress. When it was over I saw the small stone grave and watched as one by one everyone placed a rock on the headstone. I was the last person to go up. I found a little heart shaped rock in the grass and placed it in the center, but I never cried.

The Jerusalem Market
I had never been anywhere like this before. There were people brushing past me, people crammed under make-shift tents, people sitting along the corridors, and people shouting. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings littered cloth covered tables and exploded out of glass jars. People haggled in Hebrew over the price of paintings or clothing. I could feel my heart beating from taking in all these new sights and because I had never experienced anything like this before. Turning the corner, I held my purse tighter to my side. Waves of scents hit me; smells of unidentifiable spices and freshly baked goods filled the air. I loved all the colors best though. The workers at the food stalls let you try anything. Sour candies were followed by savory pies. We wandered through the stalls buying scarves, jewelry, and other objects that my dad deemed a waste of money. He smiled as I talked to the vendors in what Hebrew I know and laughed when eventually I would have to revert back to English. Hours of studying the funny characters in Sunday school were finally paying off. It was hard not to smile there, everyone was in such a good mood and willing to help.

Oxford University, England
I caught my reflection in a glass window; apprehension was etched into my brow. I quickly rearranged my expression into what I hoped portrayed a little more confidence and headed for gate twenty-seven. With a deep breath I boarded the plane and searched for my seat. I stared out that tiny little window taking my last glimpses of Florida, and then all the other states until all I could see was the vast blue of an ocean beneath me. The woman sitting next to me stole a glance at my face and gave a hesitant smile that I awkwardly returned. I tried and failed to sleep numerous times. When I woke up the sun was just rising and my first view of England was surrounded in a brilliant light that even made the airport look like a scene out of a fairy tale. I was completely thrilled when I found a familiar place in the airport; it was a Starbucks, and a very welcoming site to a girl who had barely slept on the plane and who had a newly reset watch telling her it was seven in the morning. That little logo was a small comfort, a little reminder of home in a foreign place. So with my coffee in one hand and suitcase in another I set out to find the bus that would take me to Oxford. We pulled up to Pembroke College. I walked unsteadily down cobblestone streets and walked into countless shops and even a small market. I was so enchanted by the town that I forgot I had no idea where I was or how to get back to my dorm. Shopkeepers pointed me in the right direction until, at last, I found Pembroke.

Camping
My sides hurt. I clutched at my stomach as I rocked back and forth. Tears started to well in my eyes, but I could not help it. I was laughing harder than I had ever laughed before. The ground was hard underneath the thin tent; the blankets and pillows made a messy nest where my three best friends and I talked and laughed throughout the night. No one could understand why we were friends, but we were best friends. I’m not sure how we four came together but, we did. While everyone focused on our differences, we focused on what we shared, which was everything. The night we camped in Dani’s backyard, we could see our breath when we breathed. The ground was hard and damp. It was the most fun I have ever had. We laughed about all the crazy things we had done together; how we skipped gym class to walk a mile and half to Publix to buy the good sugar cookies with the sprinkles. Hands fought over cookie crumbs while a bottle of whipped cream was passed around. When the boys next door shook our tent and made creepy noises, we grabbed at hands, sweatshirts, and whatever else was in reach to pull us closer together.

 

No Tears at a Funeral - Process Memo

Process Memo for Snap Shots Paper

When I was trying to decide what events I should write about for my Snap Shot paper, I tried to pick events that I remembered clearly. I had never been to a funeral, or knew someone who had died until my grandfather did. Even though I was young when it happened, it was such a strange experience that it will always be ingrained in my mind. While writing it, I tried to put myself back into the mindset I had when I was eight years old and experiencing it. I concentrated my writing on what my eight year old self thought was important at that time, such as hating the clothes I wore and getting distracted by squirrels instead of paying attention. The second and third snap shots were also times when I was out of my element. In the Jerusalem Market and Oxford snap shots, I tried to capture the ambiance of the places and how I felt there in addition to just how it looked. I wanted the reader to be able to walk down the same set of cobblestones and see everything just as I saw it. The last snap shot, Camping, was just a day when I felt really happy. I knew I wanted to write a passage about my friends so I thought of all the activities we do together and I felt that our experience camping showed what made our friendship different from other people’s friendships. In all of the passages, I tried to show the readers what happened instead of telling them. I would write a passage and then go back and add details to a lot of what I had written. I would change “I was laughing” into a description of what I looked like while I was laughing and “I did not pay attention during the funeral” into a description of what distracted me. For me revision was adding details and making the words flow. I knew I was finished when I felt certain that the reader would be able to paint the same picture in their head from reading my paper that I had in my mind when I wrote it.