Reading comprehension and
text analysis. 30 minutes
Snow
by Ann Beattie
I remember
the cold night you brought in a pile of logs and a small squirrel jumped
off as you lowered your arms. "What do you think you're doing in
here?" you said, as it ran through the living room. It went through the
library and stopped at the front door as though it had known the house well. This
would be difficult for anyone to believe, except perhaps as the subject of a
poem. Our first week in the house was spent scraping, finding some of the
house's secrets, like wallpaper under wallpaper. In the kitchen, a pattern of
white-gold trellises supported purple grapes as big and round as ping -pong
balls. When we painted the walls yellow, I thought of the bits of grape that
remained underneath and imagined the vine popping though, the way some plants
can grow through anything. The day of the big snow, when you had to shovel
the walk, couldn’t find your cap, and asked me how to wind a towel so that
it would stay on your head-you, in the white towel turban, like a crazy king of
snow. People liked the idea of our being together, leaving the city for the
country. So many people visited, and the fireplace made all of them want to
tell amazing stories… the child who happened to be standing on the right corner
when the door of the ice cream truck came open and hundreds of popsicles
crashed out; the man standing on the beach, sand sparkling in the sun, one bit
glinting more than the rest, stooping to find a diamond ring. Did they talk
about amazing things because they thought we'd turn into one of them? Now I
think they probably guessed it wouldn't work.
It was as
hopeless as giving a child a matched cup and saucer. Remember the night out on
the lawn, knee deep in snow, chins pointed at the sky as the wind whirled down
all that whiteness? It seemed that the world had been turned upside down, and
we were looking into an enormous field of Queen Anne's lace. Later, headlights
off, our car was the first to ride through the newly fallen snow. The world
outside the car looked solarized.
You
remember it differently. You remember that the cold settled in stages, that
small curve of light was shaved from the moon night after night, until you were
no longer surprised the sky was black, that the chipmunk ran to hide in the
dark, not simply to a door that led to its escape. Our visitors told the same
stories people always tell. One night, giving me a lesson in storytelling, you
said, "Any life will seem dramatic if you omit mention of most of
it."
This,
then, for drama: I drove back to that house not long ago. It was April, and
Allen had died. In spite of all the visitors, Allen, next door, had been the
good friend in bad times. I sat with his wife in their living room, looking out
the glass doors to the backyard, and there was Allen's pool, still covered with
black plastic that had been stretched across it for winter. It had rained, and as
the rain fell, the cover collected more and more water until it finally spilled
onto the concrete. When I left that day, I drove past what had been our house.
Three or four crocuses were blooming in the front - just a few dots of
white, no field of snow. I felt embarrassed for them. They couldn't compete.
This is a
story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in
love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the
barest outline, and futile to discuss. It's as pointless as throwing birdseed
on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive
when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments.
Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool.
Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time
is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying "snow," my lips move so
that they kiss the air.
No mention
has been made of the snowplow that seemed always to be there, scraping snow off
our narrow road- an artery cleared, though neither of us could have said where
the heart was.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I.
Analyze the text by answering the following questions:
- How does the narrator and the “you”
remember the things differently?
(i. analyse and draw conclusions from information, main
ideas and supporting details)
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2. Give 3 examples of literary devices,
techniques or effects the author has used to communicate his or her
message/ideas/point of view.
(ii. analyses basic conventions including aspects of format
and style, and author’s purpose for writing)
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3.
How do you think the snow symbolize the narrator’s feelings, emotions and time?
(iii. engages with the written and visual text by
analysing ideas, opinions and attitudes and by making a response to the text
based on personal experiences and opinions from a global perspective.)
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Criterion D: Creative Writing.
Write
a “you” story in the form of a diary entry describing your
memories, feelings and emotions and addressing
your text to someone you know (your childhood friend, first love, parents,
teacher, etc.) following the requirements of diary
entry text- type
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