As a naturalist who calls the Great Plains home, I entered the Serengeti Plains of Africa with beginner's eyes. The sky arched over me like a taut bow. George Schaller describes the Serengeti as "a boundless region with horizons so wide one can see clouds between the legs of an ostrich." (3)

       The Mara belongs to the Maasai or the Maasai to the Mara. The umbilical cord between man and earth has not been severed here. The Maasai pasture their cattle next to leopard and lion. They know the songs of grasses and the script of snakes. They move like thin shadows across the savannah. A warrior with a red cloak draped over his shoulder stands silhouetted against the sun. Beefeaters, blood-drinkers, the Maasai are one of the last strongholds of nomadic life. (4)

       Samuel Kiplangat was my guide in the Mara. He is Maasai. The stretched holes in the lobes of his ears are like small windows and a reminder of the traditional life he has left behind. But he has not abandoned his native intelligence. Samuel felt the presence of animals long before he saw them. I watched him pull animals out of hiding with his eyes. I saw him penetrate stillness with his senses. (4–5)

Before the Subcommittee on Fisheries and Wildlife Conservation and the Environment concerning the Pacific Yew Act of 1991

Ms. Williams:

       Thank you, Mr. Chairman and subcommittee members. I appreciate being able to testify on behalf of Pacific yew management. My name is Terry Tempest Williams. I come to you as a woman concerned about health. I am thirty-six years old. I am the matriarch of my family. Nine women in my family have had mastectomies. Seven are dead. My mother passed away from ovarian cancer in 1987. We have had subsequent deaths in 1988, 1989, and 1990. I am aware of the intimate, painful struggle of women, families, and cancer. [end of page 125]

     Taxus brevifolia, Pacific yew. Fossil records of this evergreen tree have been found and placed within the Jurassic Era, 140 billion years ago. Ironically, our federal government, the National Forest Service, and the Bureau of Land Management have viewed the Pacific yew as a trash tree, a nuisance, a weed to get out of the way so they can manage and perpetuate the clearcut technology that supports the harvesting of Douglas fir. Taxus brevifolia's most current habitat has been slash piles.

       Up until now, nobody cared. The yew was invisible, expendable. But the story has changed. The status of the Pacific yew has been raised. The yew tree contains taxol, which has been proven to be an effective treatment against ovarian and breast cancers. We know this narrative through the National Cancer Institute, through Bristol-Myers, through the National Forest Service, the BLM, and conservation groups. What don't we know?

       I can tell you that my mother, who had ovarian cancer, didn't know she had any more options after a radical hysterectomy, Cytoxan, cisplatin, Adriamycin treatments, and six weeks of radiation  therapy had failed to offer her a cure. Pacific yew, Taxus brevifolia, taxol were not words in her vocabulary, or in her doctor's vocabulary for that matter. I remember the day in June when her doctor said, "Diane, I am sorry. We have done all we ca do for you. My advice to you is to go home, get your life in order, and enjoy the time you have left." My mother died six months later, a woman fifty-four years old. My grand- [end of page 126] mothers and aunts are also dead—breast cancer. They didn't know they had taxol options either. But my grandmother did know about yew trees. She loved them. They formed the hedge around her home, and she knew them as a mythical tree, telling us as children that in England they were planted on the graves of our English ancestors. Their roots would wind their ways into the mouths of the dead and give them eternal voice. And on long summer nights we imagined hearing the voices of our dead singing across the continents, whispering through the hedges of yew, coming back to us. As a Mormon girl in Utah, I believed this.

       In anticipation of today's hearing on the management of the Pacific yew, I traveled last month to the Willamette National Forest in Oregon and the checkerboard BLM lands in the largest timber-producing forest in the United States. AS a woman with a strong family history of both ovarian and breast cancer, I wanted to see wild Pacific yew for myself. I want to believe I have options for my future so when my oncologist says to me has he has, "It is not if you get cancer, but when," I can hold on to the boughs of this healing tree.

       I stepped into Lane County. I was not prepared for what I saw.

       Site One: the Getting Conference Timber Sale. My guide was David Hale, professional woodcutter, who lives in Cottage Grove, Oregon. He is a scavenger. He makes his living off the slash piles of clearcuts. A clearcut. [end of page 127] It has always been an abstraction to me. My friend Sandra Lopez, a resident of Lane County, from the McKenzie River valley, created a broadside titled "Clearcut." I would like to add this to the Congressional Record. She wanted to express what she saw—the clearcuts around her home. Sandra printed the text of the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd..." You open the book and the sacred text has been mutilated. She removed individual words and passages with an X-acto knife. Clearcut.

       Clearcut. The Getting Conference Timber Sale. BLM lands. The Bohemia Timber Company all involved. David Hale had a permit to cut firewood. What he found was sixty yew trees in the slash—sixty dead, mutilated yew trees unmarked, unpeeled—wasted trees. According to the National Cancer Institute, the yew tree grows so slowly that it takes the bark of three hundred-year-old trees to treat a single cancer patient. Sixty yew trees divided by three—we are talking twenty women who could have been treated with taxol. My mother? My grandmothers? My aunts? Your mother? Your wife? Twenty women. Sixty trees lying dead on top of the clearcut with limbs and needles still intact.

       David Hale blew the whistle. The BLM said David Hale couldn't identify yew. He couldn't tell them apart from cedar. What we found was that the BLM couldn't tell the difference. May I submit to the subcommittee branches mistaken for yew: Douglas fir painted [end of page 128] blue. Wrong. And here is vine maple painted blue, also identified as Pacific yew. Wrong. I would like to enter these specimens for the record.

       On January 20, 1992, David Hale found sixty full yew trees among the slash. He figured that there were at least two hundred cords of good firewood available, worth close to ten thousand dollars for his income. On January 25, 1992, five days later, same site, same slash pile, the Bohemia Timber Company had bulldozed the slash, not only destroying most of the Pacific yew trees but hiding them beneath the cedars at the bottom of the pile, a nasty cover-up. David Hale has a video to document this illegal act. I urge the committee to secure it for themselves as evidence of this tragic waste of yew. I have submitted his address in my formal testimony.

       The irony here is that if David Hale were to strip one piece of yew bark, he would be fined ten thousand dollars. But if left in the slash pile, he can cut it as firewood. Clearcut. BLM. Business as usual. Douglas firs are of value. Pacific yews are not. Ladies and gentlemen, nothing has changed in the mind of our federal government. Our healing options, the gift of the Pacific yew, are going up in smoke. As I left, David pointed me to a burned hillside. He figured he watched fifty thousand cords of wood burn, and he said, "In every old-growth slash pile, there are Pacific yew."

       Site Two: Lost Horizon Timber Sale. I traveled to the back of Mount June. BLM lands once again. This [end of page 129] time my companions were Dick Wilcox and Dave Barton, professional yew-bark collectors of NaPro, a private company interested in securing taxol not only from the bark but from the needles as well. Wilcox and Barton told me they had harvested six hundred pounds of dry yew bark from this site. When I got there, I was stunned. The hillside was charred. The BLM's definition: a broadcast burn. The taxol molecute is destroyed at 150°F. Dick said it is not worth collecting. They figured they lost six hundred more pounds of taxol. That translates to ten grams of taxol, five more women who were not treated.

       In conclusion, the web of life in the Pacific Northwest is rapidly unraveling. We are seeing ourselves as part of the fabric. It is not a story about us versus them. That is too easy. It is not a story to put conservationists against cancer patients. That is too easy also. Nor is it a story about corporate greed against a free-market economy. It is a story about healing and how we might live with hope.

       The poet W. S. Merwin says, "I want to tell what the forests were like. I will have to speak a forgotten language." I am asking you as members of this subcommittee, as my lawmakers, my guardians of justice, for one favor. Will you please go visit the trees? See them for yourself—these beautiful healing trees growing wildly, mysteriously, in the draws of our ancient forests, and then go visit the adjacent clearcuts, walk among the [end of page 130] wreckage, the slash piles, forage through the debris, and look again for the Pacific yew. Think about health. Think about the women you love—our bodies, the land—and think about what was once rich and dense and green with standing. Think about how our sacred texts may be found in the forests as well as in the Psalms, and then, my dear lawmakers, I ask you to make your decision with your heart, what you felt in the forest in the presence of a forgotten language.

       And if you cannot make a decision from this place of heart, from this place of compassionate intelligence, we may have to face as a people the horror of this nation, that our government and its leaders are heartless.

Cookbook writer and chef Gwen Ashley Walters testifies in the North Carolina Literary Review:

[...] I ordered the chopped barbecue plate. When it arrived I gasped, "What happened to my food? Did somebody already chew this for me?" It was the most anemic tint of pale gray I had ever seen. And the coleslaw was...sitting in a pool of red vinegar sugar water. My husband quickly doused my chopped pork with...a dark orange-red sauce, very thin and fuming with vinegar, too. I was beginning to wonder if the cherry cobbler would emit vinegar as well.

       My first bite was almost as shocking as the pork-only menu. The vinegar-based sauce was first tangy, sending chills through my bones, followed by slightly sweet with a spicy hot finish. There was a taste convention going on in my mouth, and the exhibitors were fighting for tongue-space. I didn't know what to think. All my life, barbecue had one connotation. Now I was faced with a revelation. I ate what someone else called barbecue, and I liked it—no, I loved it! How was I ever going to rationalize what I thought of as an inalienable truth: only Texas does barbecue? Simple. What I ate that day and many, many days that followed wasn't really barbecue. It was NorthCarolinaBarbecue, one word. One really good word.

       I em playing basketball. I love to play basketball. I just shoot. I like to play ugest my bruthr. Sum times I win. Sum times he plays ese. My bruthr tot me to play basketball he told me that wen you stop grebling you cant start to grebling again.

       [I am playing basketball. I love to play basketball. I just shoot. I like to play against my brother. Sometimes I win. Sometimes he plays easy. My brother taught me to play basketball. He told me that when you stop dribbling you can't start dribbling again.] (Peha)

       I got a shot in my hip. It hurt. I was limping. Because I could not straighten my leg. I got a shot because I had strep throt. It hurt to swlo. Strep is going around. My doctor said she had to have 15 kids get a shot. You should drink lots of fluids. So you won't get sick. If you cannot swllo and your throt is puffy, than you have strep. You should get lots of rest. And get a shot. Because the shot will make you better faster then the medicine. (Peha)

       BOOM!!! The trunk slammed. Bang!!! The car door slamed as we got out of the van. Buses lined up on the side-walk. The screches of the buses got annoying. Screch!!! Screch!!! We walked and walked until we found a place to sit for the parade. I saw a Grease van and someone threw me a dafudle. The dafudle petals were soft, and it smeled pretty. A Titantic floot sailed by. All schools had cheers. One school's band was star-wars. A dummy was shot out of a cannon. It made me jump!!! We ate snacks at the parade, like sandwiches and juice and carouts. They were good. The parade was two-hours. We sat on a blanket. Things blew every where when float went by whew-clunk. Finally the parade was done. We put the blanket in the trunk. BOOM!! It slamed agin and we drove away as I thought how much fun I had. (Peha)

Ashes All Over

       The day after Thanksgiving my family had a reunion for my grandmother on a boat because she died of cancer about a month ago. We were all sitting in a circle, reading letters about her and saying memries. Then from oldest to youngest, we went outside, and threw a rose and a cup of grandmother's ashes out into the water. I asked if I could go alone so I could have a speshle time grandmother.

       When it was my turn I went outside, said a few words and threw the rose. Then I picked up the cup and filled it with ashes. But I threw the ashes a little crooket and they fell on the bumpers, and because the wind was very hard the ashes blew back all over me and the boat.

       Everyone inside was laughing really hard, I was even laughing myself! I thought it was because of what happened. But then my mom told me that she did the same thing to my grandfather 4 years ago. She said that she had twisted her hand a little, and it all flew back all over her and my aunt Shelly. That made me laugh even harder, and my mom said that grandma Jin always liked a good laugh! I think everyone got a good laugh.

       A little bit later I got to have the extra roses to throw outside and say what I wanted to say. I had a wonderful time that day. (Peha)

When I Grow Up

       ...I tried to run, but I couldn't. The monster seemed like it was growing by the minute! And then, the most horrible thing was about to happen...I screamed and sat bolt upright up in bed. I gasped swallowing huge amounts of air. I'd just had the most horrible nightmare ever. I'd never been so scared in my life!

       Still gasping, I called "Mom!" My mom came sleepily into my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. "What is it sweetie?" she asked, her voice full of concern. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered the ghostly monster from my dream. "I...I had a nightmare." I finally managed to say. "Poor thing," my Mom said sympathetically as she gave me a hug. "But don't worry," she said, "you will stop having them when you grow up." I nodded my head in agreement. Although inside I secretly felt that I wouldn't. After my Mom left, I lay on my pillows and started to think.

       People--mostly grownups--were always telling me that things would happen, or I would like something better when I was "grown up." Apparently they thought being grown up meant liking everything and knowing everything. Well I most certainly did not!

       Personally I thought growing up meant having responsibility, and trying to make good choices, etc. I wondered if my life would be different as a grown-up. I mean I knew I would be older, and more mature, but would I be prettier? fatter? skinnier? would I choose to get married? or get a job? Then I realized something. I was nine years of age. Right now none of that stuff mattered. I didn't need a husband because I had older siblings! I didn't need a job because my Mom and dad provided for me. The only job I had right now was to be a kid. And that was just what I was going to do. (Peha)

The Tragic Asparagus Story

       The very first time I saw asparagus I hated it. I had never even tried it before, and I still hated it! I tried to pretend like it was not even there and just eat the rest of the meal, but when I was about to get up my dad looked over at my place and immediately said, "No, you may not go 'till you have eaten all of that asparagus."

       I knew right then and there that there was no way out of it. I lifted a minuscule bite to my mouth and tasted it. YUCK!!! Gross! I made a hysterical face and pushed my place towards the center of the table. There, after a couple of minutes of thinking, an idea suddenly came to me.

       Slowly, I scraped some of the food into my napkin and put it in my cat's food dish. She ate the asparagus and after about half an hour threw up. My mom and dad knew it had been from the asparagus. I got sent to my room. I knew they thought that they were teaching me a lesson, but they weren't. I could still hate the look, smell, and taste of asparagus.

[...]

       I was sitting at the table with a cold plate of icky asparagus in front of me. It tasted like moldy brains. Everyone else had excused them self ages ago leaving me all alone to finish my disgusting lunch and mourn. I wondered if anyone felt sorry for me. I checked my watch, 1:30! I'd been at the table for an hour and twenty minutes! I decided there was nothing else left to do but finish up the asparagus.

       So I got a glass of juice from the fridge and started eating, taking each bite with a gulp of juice afterwards. Finally I was done!

[...] (Peha)

The Last Day of School

       I sat in my desk, sweat dripping down my face. I shut my eyes tight, then opened them. I looked at my watch: 11:27. Three minutes! Three minutes until I heard a sound, a sound that would set me free for three months of total nothingness. Ms. Smith rambled on about pi and figuring out percentages. 11:28. I stared at my watch. I looked as the seconds ticked down to freedom from SCHOOL! 11:29:50. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0. BRRRIIINNNGGG! The bell rang! I pulled on my backpack, tore out of the room, sprinted down the stairs, sped down the hallway, and bounded out the door. I dashed home and picked up a snack. I popped a video into the VCR, turned on the TV, and relaxed. Ahhh...what a glorious day! (Peha)

In Praise of Ancient Vehicles

       As I step out of the pick-up it hits me, the smell of manure drifting down from the barn. A sliding glass door swishes open, and clomping down the ramp is my boss, Robert Taylor.

       "Put your lunch in the van, Steve. I'll be there in a minute."

       I turn and walk toward the van, an old '69 green and white Dodge Sportsman, covered with an inch of dust. When I open the door and peer in, it reminds me of a walk-in trash can. The floor lies out of sight underneath a sea of garbage. I kick some garbage out of my way and hop up in the seat.

       Before long, here comes Rob. clomping across the driveway. He opens the door, groans as he gets up into his seat, cranks the motor over, and the motor sputters to a start, filling the air inside the van with the smell of burnt oil. My first impression is that we won't make it out of the driveway, but we sputter out onto the road, and head toward town.

       When we pull into the circular drive, I peer through the dust-smudged window to find that the tractor is still there. On the side it reads "Massey-Ferguson," but with Robert, it's hard telling what it really is.

       As I sit down in the seat I adjust the hunk of foam rubber to a comfortable position. Once I have accomplished this, I sit down and start cranking on the prehistoric starter. Slowly, and then more rapidly, like a steam engine building up speed, the black smoke rolls out of the pipe functioning as a muffler and away we go. (Peha)

Dusty Books

       The smell of old, dusty books reminds me of my father. An avid collector, he had many books, most of which went unread.

       He owned books on everything from medicine to Vietnam to several sets of encyclopedias.

       When I enter one of his haunts, such as Powell's, I a carried back to a time when the two of us were happy.

       I see him standing by a shelf, thumbing through a medical journal, or opening his wallet to pay for yet another purchase, knowing full well that Mom would lecture him on "wasting money on books you never read anyways!"

       Strolling past rows and rows of books, I remember how, after the cancer struck, he came less and less and read fewer and fewer books. They became just part of the scenery, collecting only dust and memories.

       Near the end, perhaps knowing he would never get to read them all, he gave almost all of the books away, keeping only a few and treating them with an almost holy reverence, as if any crease or mar would destroy the totally. Gone was the man who would brush aside a huge coffee stain, replaced by one who would fly into terrible rages at a bent corner or creased spine.

       I have read a few now, after he is gone, and each time it brings back a hurt like a sore that refuses to heal. But I suppose it is a quest of sorts, because if I can take on his thirst for knowledge, cheerful smile, and willingness to help ohters, then like a match in the darkness, I will bring a little light into the world. And if that light touches others, maybe it will spread far and wide, to light up the heavens for millennia to come.

       I think he'd like that. (Peha)

Will Was Right

       The sweat on your brow. A layer of dust on your face. Out in the woods. Somewhere. And on a horse. Of all the places in the world, I feel best on a horse. Listening to the clip-clop of the hooves. Swatting at flies. (Which probably doesn't sound appealing to most people but, when you're on a horse, everything's enjoyable, even swatting flies!)

       Not everyone likes being around horses, which is hard for me to understand. Some people are deathly afraid of them. The girl I'm going to tell you about is one of those people.

       Two years ago, I went on a four-hour ride, my longest yet. I remember it distinctly. We were at Simpson Stables, just at the edge of the Mt. Henderson wilderness area. Only one other person would go on the ride besides the trail guide. Her name was Jennifer. I think she was 11 or 12 years old and I doubt she had ever been on a horse in her life. At first I thought she must be a pretty good rider because she had great boots and she was, after all, on the four-hour-ride. I was soon proven wrong.

       I mounted Pal, my mighty, beautiful, smart horse, with no problem. Jennifer, on the other hand, didn't have any luck. With the help of two trail hands, the red-faced girl finally got her foot in the stirrup. Then, with one last might heave, the dazed Jennifer struggled the rest of the way onto her weak, ugly, dumb-as-a-doornail horse, Van. The name explains him completely. (Just think of an old, beige, Volkswagen van.)

       As soon as Jennifer got on her beige Volkswagen, her proud rancher-type grandpa and not-so-rancher-type grandma came to take a picture. She managed a faint smile. Then Van shook his head and snorted, and Jennifer grew pale and grabbed the saddle horn tight. After that, I realized that the only reason she'd agreed to the trail ride was to please racher-gramps.

       As we headed away from the gate, the sun felt warm on our backs. Birds flew everywhere. Jennifer, however, wasn't enjoying any of this. Getting on was only the beginning of her troubles. Whenever we loped the horses, Jennifer would hold Van in check, screaming at the top of her lungs for him to slow down. No wonder we didn't see any deer.

       Half an hour after setting out on the trail, I lost faith in the trail guide, too. He took out a round container from his back pocket, opened the lid and pulled out a wad of tobacco. After a minute or so, a long stream of tobacco juice shot from his mouth, gumming up the nearby grass and trees. And as if that wasn't enough, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up--in the middle of a dry, drought-stricken forest! There went all my faith in the only other normal person on the ride, blowing away like his cigarette ashes. I thought he must be insane I was sure the whole forest would go up in flames. Fortunately, he knew enough not to put it out in the middle of the pine needles.

       In spite of everything, I enjoyed myself, listening to the horse's hooves and the squeak of the leather saddle, rocking to the rhythm of Pal's smooth gait.

       Someday, I'm going on the ideal trail ride. This is how it would be. My family and I would set out on our own horses for a three or four-day ride near Henderson or someplace with hardly any people. There wouldn't be any smoking, silly trail guides, and no Jennifer. Just the family, the horses, and the wildlife. I think Will Rogers was right when he said there was nothing as good for the inside of a person as the outside of a horse. (Peha)

The Hill

       There is an old hill on my Grandma's property. The hill is grown over with grass, dead stinging nettles, and skunk cabbage. There is an old rickety bridge that you have to jump off to get safely to the ground because blackberries block the way.

       After the bridge you have to walk through matted dead grass, then you get to an old cedar tree. You cut through the small trail around the cedar tree to get to the road-like flat slanty path to the field. You sneak through the long dead grass. Finally you reach the fence. Be careful not to the let the big white dog see you looking at the horses. (He thinks he owns and is guard of the fence and all things on both sides of it.) For a better view, go to the funny shaped tree, it works as a good lookout, and it's a safe place where the neighbor dogs can't get you. (No matter how hard they jump.) From the tree you can see a lot--my Uncle's horses (down the hill) the Kapowsin and Shady Ridge creeks, the place where the creeks meet together, the trail (both of them), the two bridges, the neighbor's houses, Mr. L's cows, and all the other trees and fields.

       When you're done looking around (and when the coast is clear of the big white dog) you can jump down and head for the one still usable trail that my mom made and used when she was little. I'm not sure how it's possible that the trail is still there but I think the coyotes, deer, possum, skunk, rabbits, mice, and snakes use it, and keep it there.

       Be careful when you go down because if you're behind someone pesky, pushed aside branches will slap you in the face. When you get to the waterside, sit down, listen to the rushing, slurping, sound of the water, the lapping against the sandy bank, the birds chirping, watch for animals. If you stay still and quiet the animals will relax and come out of hiding, and the birds will start chirping.

       Walk back to the big cedar tree and wander eastward, up the busy hill and you will find yourself in the cemetery. If you don't want to go there, go west and take a swim in the icy water. (If you don't freeze.) When you're really cold, dry off. If you want, catch a couple of crawdads. Then, go home and fry your crawdads, and eat them, and think about your day on the hill. (Peha)

This Is Why I Write

       Thoughts pound in my head, day after day, until I get them down on paper. Each idea brings out a slice of what's inside of me.

       That may mean hours of writing fiercely, while thoughts flip through my head and new ideas emerge. Other times it means crumbling up pages of crossouts, or retyping one page over and over until I'm satisfied with how it reads. Then there are times that are maddening; I can't go forward or backward, instead I stare at a blank page for hours.

       Still I write. I can't imagine how I could stop.

       Writing is power. I control my writing. It's as stable as I am. No one can change it, except for me. I make all the decisions. Other people give me advice, but I'm the one who puts the words on the paper.

       As a writer, I am free. No one tells me what I can and can't say. I have to decide what part of me should be written, how much of me I want to share. There are no rules or boundary lines to follow. Some things aren't meant to be written, but the only way to learn what they are is by writing them.

       Writing isn't all facts. The facts are what can be taught, but the rest comes only from the writer. Teachers can give us guidelines, advice, and encouragement that we'll treasure, but the heart of a piece comes from us. Writing is more than following rules and advice; it requires that the writer follow her heart.

       Writing expands me. It stimulates my mind. When I write, I feel alive, I want to know everything. I'm always acquiring new skills. Soon after I started writing I needed more answers than I could get from my English book or from my parents. I started learning by studying how other people wrote, and then picked up on my own mistakes. I pored over every bit of information I could find. A lot of the time I improved subconsciously, absorbing new vocabulary and techniques from all around me.

       My writing is always changing. Sometimes I'm half way through a page, and I'll just rewrite it completely. What I find interesting bout writing is that I can see myself growing along with it. It makes me look at the world through different perspectives, and helps me understand myself.

       My writing gradually grows. I spend hours trying to capture the core of myself within the empty pages of my journal. Over time, my writing becomes structured as I carefully choose every word that I use to make them fly right off the page into my readers' minds.

       Writing is my companion. It's what I do in my spare time. On rainy summer days, while my mother works, my father is outside, and my sister is at a friend's house, I write. I pour out my deepest secrets, my strongest feelings. This is what I do. This is why I write. (Peha)

       Worshippers filtered in streams into the hollow enclosure. There was a flurry of activity in preparation for the seasonal ritual in the wedge-shaped opening that was the centerpiece of the space. The opening had both curved and straight edges, and was surrounded by green walls of various height, each decorated with symbols. Men, presumably deacons, clad in the red and blue holy colors, moved in the opening with rakes to arrange dirt into careful patterns essential for the proper progression of the ritual. Brightly, tightly clad men, the participants in the ritual, appeared occasionally in the opening for preparatory activities. Disembodied announcements, most dedicated to the two gods Goods and Services, echoed through the space to remind worshippers of their spiritual obligations for the day. The announcements fell on mostly deaf ears – those in attendance, accustomed to the style and even wording of most of the messages, continued with their own pre-ritual preparations. Most consumed a pungent liquid that elevated them to a state of euphoria. Those sitting toward the edges of the space on long benches looked like deacons-in-training, judging by the flamboyant colors and headdresses they wore to match the men tending dirt in the opening. Other worshippers sat behind transparent slates in Special Rooms – these men more often than not had tied multicolored pieces of fabric around their necks. The connection of the neck-fabric men to the ritual was less clear, but their attendance did appear to generate a strong fraternity among them. Presently a general hush was followed by howls from the benches as the tightly clad men took to the opening en masse. A louder announcement followed: “Fans, welcome YOUR 2010 Boston Red Sox. Sponsored by Pepsi.” (Patrick)

Rubric

Rubric

A (17–20)
•    Topic sentence begins paragraph, is clear, on topic, focused/effectively narrows the topic, interesting or amusing to writer and readers; makes a statement about the topic; gives a sharp, clear main idea.
•    Descriptive details and ideas that support the topic sentence do not merely repeat the first sentence but add something new to the paragraph. They flow logically, elaborate on and develop fully the topic sentence, and provide vivid, concrete, specific and compelling descriptions of the idea or statement made. Descriptions make use of imagery that appeal to several sensory perceptions, effective figurative language (ex. similes, metaphors are fresh and apt), showing sensitivity to the effects of sounds, word meaning and associations, rhythm, pace, sentence structure in conveying meaning.
•    Sentences are varied and effective.
•    Minimal or no mechanical errors ex. spelling, grammar, punctuation
•    Paragraph has unity, coherence.

B (15–16)
•    Topic sentence is stated clearly in a complete sentence at beginning of paragraph but maybe too broad or clichéd compared to the A range.
•    Descriptions are relevant, clear and detailed.
•    Few and minor mechanical errors ex. agreement, spelling, punctuation

C (12.75–14)
•    Topic sentence is stated at the beginning of paragraph but is too vague or broad, ineffectively narrowing the topic.
•    Descriptions or ideas tend to be rote,  vague or general, not clearly or logically arranged.
•    More frequent and serious mechanical errors ex. fragment, comma splice, agreement, tense, capitalization, spelling

D (10.25–12.5)
•    Topic sentence does not begin paragraph; incomplete sentence; not quite on topic.
•    Descriptions or ideas are very broad, often irrelevant or tends to wander off-topic, shows little logical organization.
•    Frequent and serious mechanical errors that mar clarity and comprehension
•    Paragraph is somewhat rambling; problem with unity.

F (0–10)
•    Topic sentence is incomplete, missing or off-topic; does not show scope or direction of paragraph.
•    Descriptions wander off-topic
•    Serious and excessive mechanical errors; comprehension a problem
•    Incomplete paragraph, lacks unity and direction