What do you see that is misspelled? My spell check catches nothing except Kool of Kool-aid, which is a brand.
Non-fiction / The Woodshed
The old woodhouse was across the back yard from the house to the left of the garden as you walked toward it. It was about a third the size of our house and not built nearly so sturdily. The wood had silvered and cracked long before I was ever born. It was divided into two parts by a thick wall without window or door into the rest of the house. The right side of the house, closest to the garden, had long been a chicken coop; although we always failed to see how since we never were able to successfully keep chickens alive against all the foxes and weasels. The left side consisted of one large room with a dirt floor. When I was very small, right at the edge of memory, this large room was kept empty, as if waiting for the return of some mountain settler long forgotten. There was a massive picture window on one side that faced away from our house out to the road. This never had any glass in it as far as I know, and finally my father decided that he could back the truck or tractor up to that window and we could store our winter’s wood in the house.
Then it became the woodhouse, but I don’t remember if it was called anything before that. In most of my memory, it is filled with wood. It smelled delicious and earthy in that house. And when my sister and I went to get wood there in the freezing winter, slogging the wheelbarrow painstakingly and agonizingly through the snow to the front door of the house, it was always warmer in the room, inviting, although it had undoubtedly been several generations since any fire had been kindled there to warm the poorly insulated place. We would fill the room with music, singing “Amazing Grace” or “Molly Malone” while we worked to bring in the wood. All winter the walls would echo with our song.
To the left of the door was a ladder that led to the upstairs loft. It was just an opening in the ceiling, but upstairs the loft was fully the same size as the downstairs room; although, like our house, its sloped roof took away some of the space of the room. It was completely enclosed with no windows that I remember, but the boards on the side facing the road had rotted to the point that I could pry them back and look outside. In fact, many of the wall boards were rotten and broken.
The loft was filed with all variety of junk. Whether it was placed there by my father or whether it was there for a hundred years, I could not guess. There were farming tools long outdated, including many that I couldn’t name and old toys that were rusted and useless. Along the wall that backed up to the chicken coop was a massive pile of straw. I was used to hay, soft and smelling of summer sun, but this straw, stiff, thick, and coarse, was a novelty to me.
We were not supposed to go into the loft. And in winter, although I ventured peeks now and then, I rarely did. But in summer, when the wood pile was low and the sun streamed in through the old house’s cracks and windows, I could not stay away. Its countless treasures unnamable and undiscovered were too much to resist.
The summer I was eight, I decided to make this loft my club house. My cousins, my mother’s two nephews and niece, had come down to stay at the farm. My own niece was two, curly-haired and innocent. We had all decided that this was the best place to play on the entire 600 acres. Every day we would take a thermos of Kool-aid, p-nut butter and jelly sandwiches, and any other snacks we could muster and hang out in the loft. We would talk about school or our lives at home with our parents. Sometimes we’d come up with play scenarios. Nothing out of the ordinary.
One day the girl who lived four miles down the road came to play. She was a year older than me. Growing up, we were best friends and worst enemies all rolled into one. She came on weekends sometimes, but my mother considered her a poor role model for me. All of us were in the club house. We had brought Laura to play with us too. I often had to bring her along, but normally I didn’t consider it a burden or a problem, though I am sure I had my moments as all older children who are forced to play with toddlers do. We were going to clean the club house that day. It was a hot day, over eighty degrees—which is hot for West Virginia. We wanted to move all of the old junk toward the walls so that there would be more floor space to move around. It wasn’t going to be that hard with all of us working, but it was so hot. Eventually we were tired and needed to rest.
We all lay down on the pile of straw. After a while talk came around to snakes. We started to wonder if there were any snakes in the pile of straw. We’d found a couple of really neat looking snake skins as we were rearranging the junk. Snakes were a part of life on the farm. Usually they were harmless—even beneficial—black snakes who stalked the hay lofts and grain bins keeping the rodent population from eating up the profits. I never left the house as a child without my father warning “Look out for snakes.”
My older cousin, Kevin, said “There’s a snake right now!” and he ran. We all thought he was crazy; there was no snake. Surely he was just fooling around. One by one, in slow motion we all turned and saw the long black snake laying stretched out against the wall. I was the last to go. My stubborn mind just refused to believe that here in my refuge, where I played every day; there just could not be a snake. Finally when the thing moved, my illusions were shattered, and I was forced to run. Down the ladder I went.
It wasn’t far up to the loft, perhaps six or eight feet—too far to jump, so the ladder slowed me. No sooner had we all gotten outside than I realized that Laura was still in the loft with the snake! We all looked at each other, but it was pretty obvious that if anyone was going back to help her, it was going to have to be me. It took a lot to work up my nerve to go back. I didn’t know a lot about snakes at that point, only that they were something to be warned against.
She was standing at the opening to the loft, crying. Of course, she probably didn’t understand about the snake, but she was alone and scared. We had left in a hurry, and she knew that something was wrong. She was too small to swing out and grab the ladder by herself. Even for me that required sitting down on the edge and scooting out until I could grab the ladder before swinging out onto the rungs. Going down the ladder would’ve been impossible for her anyway since it was missing a few rungs. I did not want to have to climb up to get her, but reaching her without climbing into the loft was not possible either. I calmed my voice as much as I could and tried to convince her to jump. When that failed, I tried to make her sit down on the edge of the loft. I could just reach the tips of her shoes once she did that. My method wasn’t working. Finally, reluctantly, I climbed the first two rungs of the ladder and pulled her toward me. She struggled to get away; the height was scaring her, but the snake was scaring me. I wasn’t a lot bigger than her, but I was not going to let her make me go back into that loft. After a few minutes, I finally got Laura down.
That was the last time I was ever in the loft, with others or by myself. For the rest of the summer it was an unspoken non-negotiable. We were not going back there, ever. Even in winter I harbored feelings of betrayal by the place I had loved and called my own.
A few summers later my dad decided to tear the old wood house down. We had a different shed to keep wood in now. We didn’t need the old shack, and he considered it an eyesore. He had contemplated building a new garage in the space. He took down the building while I was away at summer camp. When I came home, I was sad to see the old building go, but I cannot say that I was all that sad, even though it was a piece of my history gone. Still, I wish I knew the old house’s story. Where did it come from? Who built it and why? I’ll probably never know the answers to these questions, but I’ll always have the memory of the summer I played in the loft there.
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martykate reviewed Version 1 -
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oknapp reviewed Version 1 -
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Hi Robin.
..”ever born.” I would take out “ever” it is merely a helping word but really adds nothing.
The right side of the house, closest to the garden, had long been a chicken coop; although we always failed to see how” I don’t care for this structure.
..was a chicken coop, although we could never keep the foxes and weasels out of it. We could never figure out how they got in….
I would never change a writers words but the above sentence looked a bit clumsy and i am giving you a suggestion.
but upstairs the loft” No need for repeptition.
warned against.” Maybe scared of would be a better description.
Very nice. This could have been my own story growing up in Southestern Kentucky. Youhave a wondeful way with description. I felt like i was there seeing the old shed.I would love to see more pieces like this. Thanks for sharing. Sandi
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Matthewtuckey reviewed Version 1 -
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“as you walked toward it”- is this a second-person piece, i.e. you are telling the reader what’s happening to them? If not, I’d describe it a little differently.
Windows and doors, plural. Or, “a door”. And what was the wall made of?
It seems that the building was made of wood, but several generations ago people had burned wood inside it to keep warm. Have I read that right? That’s dangerous for two reasons- one, the room will fill with smoke. Two, the building is made of exactly the same material that you are trying to burn. If it was safely done, like there was some stone hearth with a funnel over it perhaps, then tell us.
“A variety of junk”- if it’s your family’s belongings you might not be so condescending of it all- there may be a nostalgic attachment to some of it.
“p-nut”? not peanut?
“Scenarios”- I think an accurate description of what you would play might put us in the picture a bit more.
“eventually we were tired”- You’ve said that you were going to tidy it, but you didn’t actually say you’d started, so this read like a jump to me.
The snake skins are what starts the sake conversation, I’d expect. So start that para with the discovery of the skins, then tell us about the conversation.
“there could not be a snake”- As you start this sentence with a negative- you “refused to believe”- you double the negative by saying “could not” later in the sentence. You’ve shattered the peace though. Good.
“In slow motion”- how can people move in slow motion? They can move slowly, but slow mo is a film technique.
“Tried to convince her to jump”- Can we hear his dialogue please?
“got Laura down”- I’d like a description of how he got her down the ladder, as that seems like the hardest part. This is the crest of the story! Don’t brush over it!
“All that sad”- maybe use a different word the second time. Keep your wording varied.
“The memory of the summer”- I’d expect that this would be good and bad memories- a few adjectives might help to sum it up.
Your story has good structure, suspense, an obstacle for the narrator to overcome, and a conclusion. Good work.
starhammer1 reviewed Version 1 -
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This was an interesting look at something that we usually just sort of put aside. There were quite a lot of words that were not spelled correctly, a lot of which I saw on the first page. Spell check is your friend. Other than that, I actually really like how this read. It was clear and told a decent story about the life and times surrounding this particular shed.
marshmellotoast reviewed Version 1 -
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Some of the sentences in here have really great images attached to them: ”...as if waiting…settler.” “it smelled delicious and earthy” “several generations since…” But the majority of the sentences are not very well written and hard to follow. A great tip to clean up your writing is to keep things simple. Your job as a writer is to say as much in as little words as possible and to make your writing as clear as possible. I think the story is worth telling, because it’s obvious that you have some sentimental attachment tot he woodhouse, but your technique needs to be cleaned and worked. Sentence structure is messy in a lot of places: ”...where I played everyday; there could just not be a snake.” and after all the effort you put into telling the snake story, you didn’t tell the reader how you finally got Laura down, just that you did. I think you should rewrite.
derekosborne reviewed Version 1 -
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nearly so sturdily… Sturdy?
“In most of my memory, it is filled with wood” This line felt awkward to read but I liked the expositional and metaphorical implications. Maybe recast.
”...painstakingly and agonizingly…” Another mouthful
In general, this is a good story, you have the central theme and event in place. At times your narrative voice falters, you could use more dialogue to illustrate some of the action, expecially when he goes to rescue Laura. Laura is not well drawn, and Laura was a big deal, right?
Your focus is far better in the beginning, less clear toward the middle, and I felt cheated in the end. I wanted to linger a bit more, get into the narrator’s feelings when returning home to find the house gone. I’m pointing this out because, at its heart, this is a classic story: things that have meaning because they were simply there when self awarness blossomed. Don’t lose this one, someday it will be part of a collection.
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