Introduction to this Stone Soup Writing Activity This is a story about an afternoon when two people go to the same place, the woods, and do different things—a girl plays while her father paints. They are together, but they are not working, doing, or thinking the same things. This is also a story about a place. It is the story of the woods, its history long ago when it was a farm, and its current history when many different types of people come to use it, some for the quiet pleasure of being outdoors, others to cut firewood, others to dump trash. Project: Two People Who Are Together but Doing Different Things The father paints and his daughter plays. Write a scene or a complete story in which two people are together but each person is doing or thinking something different. Think of several situations before you start writing. For example, on a car trip one back-seat passenger might be looking out the window watching the scenery and thinking while the other plays with toys. Or two people might be in a room, one watching television while the other writes a story. Both characters are “quiet” in the same place, neither is talking, and they are engaged in very different activities and are, for the moment, worlds apart. In opera, there are often duets in which two singers are singing at the same time, but each singing their own thoughts. When writing about two people who act independently of each other but share the same scene, you might borrow an idea from Vanessa Beach, author of “What Will Happen to These Woods?” From time-to-time Vanessa brings her characters together. The daughter makes contact with her father, either by talking to him or by looking at him and thinking about what he is doing. This occasional contact between the characters gives the story its overall structure and at the same time offers insights into the characters’ personalities. Note, for example, the interchange between the girl and her father over the spider. What will Happen to these Woods? By Vanessa E. Beach, 11, Jackson, New Jersey Illustrated by the author From the September/October 1985 issue of Stone Soup Today I’m going off with my father. His hobby is painting, and sometimes he hops in the car with all his tools and goes off to the middle of nowhere and paints. Today he offered to take me with him. As we were driving along in the car, on this old dirt road, we suddenly bounced up in the air. “Look!” my father exclaimed. “Somebody has been along here with a bulldozer and ripped all these trees out. Now it really looks horrendous!” Silently, I agreed. I usually enjoy going off in the woods because everything is serene and beautiful. Now, I thought to myself, nothing will ever be the same in these woods. The car stopped. I got out and walked along a path. Suddenly a huge, fallen-down tree loomed in front of me. It looked very old, since all the bark had fallen off, and it was very smooth and gray colored. Vines covered the end that was lying on the ground. “Hey, Stu,” I yelled (Stu is what we all call my father). “What?” “Are these leaves poison ivy?” “No.” “Good!” I said and climbed onto the tree. I walked all the way up to the top. On the way I noticed a pile of sawdust and brushed it away. Sitting on the top where the tree had been broken, I saw that the limbs had been sawed off. “Somebody’s been getting a lot of firewood,” my father observed, coming over to the tree. “Yep! Somebody built a fireplace, too,” I said, pointing to a circle of cinder blocks, with ashes in the middle. “Uh huh. Did you know there used to be a farm here?” “No.” “Well, there was. Kept horses, too. And that tree you’re sitting on was brought here by someone. It’s a sycamore, and they aren’t native to the woods around here.” “I nodded and he walked off with his sketching board under his arm. “What are you painting?” I shouted after him. “Grapevines.” He must be working on leaf patterns again, I thought. I slipped down off the sycamore and onto the ground beside the fireplace. I followed two tire tracks. A car or truck had been here recently, and the tires had pressed down the tall grass blades. I passed a place where, inside a grove of young trees, there was a heap of junk. I stopped and looked at it. It was ugly; old tin cans rusted, parts of a mattress scattered around, worn tires, old scraps of things people hadn’t wanted. Someone had actually come all the way out here to dump their trash? Actually going out of their way to ruin a once beautiful and clean spot? I walked on. Field daisies bloomed all around me, and bright yellow dandelions too. The fresh spring grasses parted before my feet. Soon the fire tracks ended, and a narrow path took their place. I passed my father, sitting in front of a mass of vines yelling at a bee who was distracting him. I looked around me again. The field daisies had disappeared, and tiny white flowers bloomed in their stead. Darker shades of grass rose up to my knees and swished as I walked. I began to run. The path divided, but I stayed on the one I’d been traveling on. Tall green milkweed plants stood there like soldiers guarding a queen’s courtyard. Leafy little bushes grew like dwarves in a helter-skelter manner. I stopped running. The path went on into a cluster of trees. Beyond them it seemed like there was a clearing, and I could see the tops of higher trees farther away. I wanted to go on but didn’t. Something held me back, or maybe I was afraid of what I might find ahead. I stood there for a minute, then turned
Teacher Resources
Writing Activity: using a natural process to structure a short short story with “The Fire” by Campe Goodman, 12
Introduction to this Stone Soup Writing Activity This is a short short story about someone who lights a fire in a fireplace, watches it burn for a while, letting his imagination wander along with the flames, and then, bored, goes away from the fire to do something else. The character finally returns to the fireplace, but only after the fire is out. This story has a beginning (lighting the fire), middle (the fire is burning and the character is dreaming), and end (the character returns to the dead fire). Project: Describing What You See Think of things you have watched closely, such as fish in an aquarium, rain falling outside a window, traffic on a street, or clouds in the sky. Decide on something to write about. Then think of a character who, in your story, will see what you saw. Show us what that character sees and how that character responds to what he or she has seen. Remember, this character is not you and may act very differently from the way you act. Author Campe Goodman’s character in “The Fire” is not given a name and his physical features are not described. But writing fiction is like making magic: because Campe describes the fire so well, and because he shows us how his character does things—how he lights the fire, how he dreams for a while and then gets bored with it all—we get some idea of what this fictional person is like. Campe gives his story structure (a beginning, a middle, and end) partly by choosing to describe a process (burning paper and wood) that involves dramatic change. You can do the same if you choose to describe something like the sky as it turns dark at night, or a cloud as it forms, turning from wisps to a fantastic shape and then back into wisps. The Fire By Campe Goodman, 12, Norfolk Academy, Norfolk, Virginia From the September/October 1985 issue of Stone Soup The pile of logs and paper lay lifeless in the fireplace. I lit a match and wondered how this could produce my mind’s picture of a roaring, blazing fire. I pulled back the chain curtain and tossed the flickering match in. Soon flames shot up from the paper leaving an inky black trail wherever they wandered. The smaller pieces of wood began to glow, and gradually tongues of fire enveloped them. I could no longer distinguish between paper and wood, for the dancing fire blurred everything. Slowly the flames soared higher and higher as a red veil crept over the logs. Now the fire was a mountain range with jagged red peaks rising and falling. Twisted ghostly shapes could be seen weaving in and out among the flames. Little by little I lost interest in the shapes and walked away. I returned later to find the fire blackened, trying to find life in the few remaining embers. These gradually faded out, too, leaving me with only memories of the fire.
Writing Activity: personal integrity and family history with “Homemade Crop Duster” by Vivek Maru, 10
Introduction to this Stone Soup Writing Activity This story by Vivek Maru is a moral tale. It is about personal integrity and the “right” way to live. “Homemade Crop Duster” may be a “true life” story or it may be “made up.” Most probably, like many good stories, it is a mixture of both. Stories that have a moral often read more like lectures than works of fiction. “Homemade Crop Duster” works well as a story because Vivek doesn’t lecture. Vivek lets his characters show us how to act. We are not given a lecture about right and wrong. Project: Personal Integrity and Family History Vivek tells us that this is a story about Grandpa Maru, his father’s father. He says that sometimes, when he finds it difficult to follow his religion, he thinks of this story and it gives him strength. Talk to members of your family. Find out about a time when someone in your family (a brother or sister or parent or grandparent or even a great-grandparent) made a sacrifice for an important principle. I would proceed with this project this way: first, record the facts as if you were a reporter, getting down the who, what, when, where, and why of the story. Be sure to write down the principle that a family member was upholding. Second, take this reporter’s notebook entry and make it into the best story you can. The goal is to make your story feel like it is the truth and not read like a dry statement of facts like you might find in the newspaper. To transform your notes into an exciting story, you will have to let your imagination roam. Feel free to enlarge upon the facts, make up characters that didn’t exist, and add details and dialogue you weren’t told about to help make the story come alive. Homemade Crop Duster By Vivek Maru, 10, Huckleberry Hill Elementary, Brookfield, Connecticut Illustrated by Kerry Hanlon, 13, Brookfield, Connecticut From the November/December 1985 issue of Stone Soup In a country far away called India, long ago, there lived my father Hans, then eight years old. My father’s father, Grandpa Maru, was a farmer, and a good one. Grandpa was a very religious man, and that’s why my father is too. One of his many beliefs was nonviolence, and to be strict about it. This meant no fish, eggs, or meat to eat, and most of all, to never hurt or kill any human, animal, or even insect. So in the farm Grandpa never used bug spray or any other insect killer to preserve the crops. He only used natural ways. Since his family had a very small farm of only two acres, and three children to feed, Grandpa had the oldest son, my father, work on the farm also. They lived in a village, but the farm was on the outskirts of the village, about a twenty-minute walk. In India it was a tradition to have your farm a distance away from your home. My father would have to go early in the morning, accompanied by Grandpa, to work on the farm. Most of the time my father had very merry times at the farm, watching and learning about farming. He acted older than his age. I truly think he was dedicated to agriculture. His father was also very surprised and happy about the way his son could “do it right.” Life was going very well for my dad when he was eight. But one day just before the harvest time, a faint yell caught Grandpa’s ear. It said, “Grasshoppers! Grasshoppers! Lots of them coming this way!” At first Grandpa took it calmly, thinking it was just a youngster joking. But then his own son came running home from school saying, “Daddy, Daddy, come on! We have to save our crops! There’s a cloud of grasshoppers—you won’t believe it—and they’re heading straight for our farm!” Then Grandpa started worrying. “Oh, my gosh! Run to the farm! Wait! We shall not use bug spray. Get as many ropes as you can and start tying them together,” he told my father. “Yes, Daddy,” my father replied, unsure of the purpose of the ropes. By the time my father had started tying, Grandpa was off to the farm. It was a red hot afternoon and my dad didn’t have shoes! He finished tying and Grandpa spread the two-hundred-foot rope he had made across the field. Grandpa told my dad to take one end of the rope as he took the other. “O.K., I shall do as you say,” my father said, still not knowing the purpose of the rope. “All right, now run as fast as you can,” Grandpa told him. “I’ll beat you across the field,” quipped my father, now getting the idea. The rope dragged along the crops, swooping up the grasshoppers and shooing them away. At first my father sprinted and was ahead of Grandpa, but after many times, he got tired. He slowed his run to a fast jog. “I thought you said you could beat me,” challenged Grandpa. This stole my father’s honor so he speeded up to a pace that was fast, but that he could keep for a long while. For if he couldn’t move the rope fast enough it would not go under the grasshoppers and would not budge them. But after about forty-five minutes, like any boy his age would, my father got tired. Again he slowed down. This time Grandpa was desperate. “Come on, boy, run! We’ll never get those grasshoppers out,” scolded Grandpa. “I’m trying, Daddy, but I’m very tired,” replied my father. “Well, try harder!” Unfortunately this carried on for quite a while, but fortunately my father’s aunt had come to visit. This aunt was my father’s favorite. “What are you doing here, Bahen?” Grandpa asked her. In India, brother calls sister “Bahen” and sister calls brother “Bah.” “I was told I could find you here,” replied Dad’s aunt. “I’ve brought a
