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Sherri B. Payne
English 111
December 8, 2014
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Self-Assessment
Essay #3- Momma (revised)
Essay #3- Momma (original)
Writing Self-Critique
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Sherri Payne
Stacy Jones
English 111
December 8, 2014Self-Assessment
It had been 32 years since I had taken any type of English class, when I began this one.
I thought of myself as a better than average communicator, but never thought of myself as a
writer. I write letters very well because I write as if I am talking to someone. I am not
completely convinced that text messaging is a good thing; it lacks expression. It became
apparent in my writing that I lacked expression. More graphic details were desperately needed.
My content and order were pretty good, but I needed to elaborate more in order to make my
papers much more interesting.
I learned the most from the first essay that we read, How to Say Nothing in 500 Words.
The author used numerous ways to get and keep the readers attention such as hypothetical
sporting events. He used examples that would attract the reader and gave incredible details in his
text. He also discouraged what he referred to as padding the text, which in essence is adding
unnecessary words just to make the paper longer.
Another essay that I particularly enjoyed was The Myth of the Latin Woman by Judith
Cofer. I really noticed the depth of her descriptions, more specifically the way she described the
Latin womans way of adorning herself with bright colors. She not only made you visualize her
thoughts, but you felt her hurt, anger and confusion. I tried to incorporate these emotions in my
writing. I was successful at times, such as describing Gabriel Jr. in my literacy narrative and my
mother in my memoir. I also fell short at other times, like when I failed to give more details
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about the fishing trip for the elderly veterans. Im still learning, quite obviously, however I do
see improvement.
One of my shortcomings is the use of commas, in my grammar. This was something I
didnt worry about at the beginning of the class. I had good grammar teachers in the past and
made high scores in their classes, usually As and Bs. As it turned out, I had more teachers that
emphasized grammar than creative writing or literature. This class taught me that my grammar
skills are not what they should be. My papers had more errors on comma usage than anything
else. It also taught me the importance of proof-reading your text before submitting it for a grade.
I did find interesting, the lecture about the differences between ethos, pathos, and
logos. In the beginning, my papers were very strong in logos. They were quite logical but
not always interesting. In writing, I had been taught to give the facts: the who, what, when and
where, like a reporter would do. In this class I was taught that the ethos and pathos are the
characteristics that make the papers interesting. Its important to include feelings and details to
keep the readers attention.
One way the instructor challenged me, was to use stronger verbs. I was somewhat
amused and impressed when Ms. Jones asked, How do you do as particular passive verb,
such as be. That example seemed to stick with me in my memory. This made it easier for me
to seek out more lively verbs to use.
I have been challenged in this class and I strived to meet the challenges. I am pleased
with my writing, and the improvement thereof. I am not the best, and I dont claim to be. I am
however an above average communicator with better skills than when I first started.
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Sherri Payne
English 111
Stacy Jones
November 3, 2014
Momma
Ive always heard the phrases, Daddys little girl and Mommas boy. Growing up at
my house, things were somewhat different. Mommas boys were grown, by the time I came
along, and my older sister was definitely, Daddys little girl. I was the baby of the family,
affectionately referred to by my father as, Brat. When I was eleven, my father died at age 47,
because an aneurysm behind his heart burst. Life, as I knew it, had suddenly changed forever. I
wasnt Brat anymore, tagging along behind my Daddy to the coffee shop or where ever else he
might let me go. There was no one left at home but Momma and me. All of my siblings were
grown, married, and living in their own homes.
I was having a difficult time accepting my fathers death, so at the funeral home just
before the funeral, my youngest brother, Gary took it upon himself to have a heart-to-heart
discussion with me. He told me I had to be strong, for Momma. He said that Daddys death was
hard on her and that since I was the only one, still at home, I would have to step up to the task
and really be strong, moral support for her. I didnt quite understand how such a strong woman
could be so vulnerable but I took his words to heart.
Over the years, I became very close to my mother. I was her baby and the only one at
home with her. It was almost like being an only child because all of my siblings lived out of
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town. Momma and I did everything together. She was my rock. Momma was my softball coach
when I was in third and fourth grades. She was also my disciplinarian. I learned at an early age to
have manners and show respect to my elders. Talking back disrespectfully to my mother was not
allowed. It didnt take me long to realize that disrespecting my Momma was called back talk
for a reason. If I did it, the back of her hand would land across my lips before I knew what
happened and this was not a pleasant experience. With all of that being said, my Momma loved
me unconditionally and I knew that. She was the strongest woman in my world.
Momma began smoking cigarettes when she was sixteen. She quit 40 years later at the
age of 56. I was so proud of her for quitting, but the damage had already been done to her lungs.
In her latter years, she developed COPD, Cardio Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The
progression of her condition was expedited by pneumonia. It was late summer in 2002, when I
first noticed the progression. I had just pulled into Walmart parking lot searching for the closest
parking space to the door, when I spotted my mothers little white Pontiac Grand AM. Sitting in
the drivers seat, with her head slumped over the steering wheel, was my momma. She had
gotten winded, walking to her car, and was attempting to catch her breath. I honked my horn to
arouse her attention. She waved me on in a manner reassuring me that she was okay.
I saw my mother every day and did not really realize how badly she felt until
Thanksgiving of 2002. Her health had deteriorated terribly fast. Momma loved the holidays.
She thrived on having her family around her and serving them. She would spend days planning
and cooking for the family gatherings. When we were all in attendance, there were in excess of
30 people there. She would cook enough for an army. The food lined the countertops of the
kitchen, winding around to the utility room. It was there that the various desserts sat perched
atop the washer and dryer. Before the meal, the entire family would meet in the kitchen, hold
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hands, and someone would pray for Gods blessings on our food. Momma was always the last
one to fix her plate. She never sat down to eat until each person had been fed.
Typically, our meal time was at twelve noon. This particular Thanksgiving I went early to
see if Momma needed any help. I arrived at 10:30 am. Normally, Momma would have been up
since at least 6 a.m., cleaned the kitchen, showered, and prepared herself for company.
My momma was a fashion conscious lady. She knew what type of clothing fit her body
and she knew how to flaunt it. Every time she bought a new dress she would prance around the
room and twirl like a little girl, a true Miss Priss. When company was coming, she always
looked good. Holidays were special occasions and she dressed up wanting to look her best for
family snapshots. I fully expected to see Momma all dressed up, with her apron on, and working
like a busy bee in the kitchen. Not this time. As I walked in the back door, the vision I saw was
not at all what I expected. My heart sank and I felt tears wanting to come forth, but I managed to
hold them back. I put on a smile and said, Good Morning! Happy Thanksgiving!
There at the kitchen table, sat my 76- year- old mother in her night gown and slippers.
Her hair had not been brushed, and it was lying flat against her head where she had nestled on
her pillow. Her hair was so thin you could see her scalp in places. My step-dad stood over the
kitchen stove cooking for the family that would soon be arriving. I told Momma that I was there
to help get things ready and all she had to worry about was getting herself together. A smile of
relief came over her face; she gently cupped my cheek with her hand, looked up at me and said,
Thank you Darlin. I love you. She went to the shower and I got busy.
I cleaned off the table and got smaller tables out of storage. I found the holiday linens
for the tables and presented the tables to Mommas standards. I swept and mopped the floors,
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vacuumed the carpets, cleaned off the countertops to make room for the food, emptied the trash,
and cleaned the bathroom before company arrived. That day I realized that my super-hero
mother was now a frail, little, old lady. From that day forward, things would be different.
Thanksgiving turned out nicely. It was typical in the sense that all of the family gathered
together to share a huge, delicious meal. This time was different; Momma wasnt the last to sit
down. Her children were all grown and we took care of ourselves, and the grandchildren. I took
care of Momma. Seated at the table as the matriarch of our family, was Momma; I served her. I
also made it a point to speak privately to each of my siblings about Momma and her dwindling
physical condition.
By Christmas, her breathing was shallower and she had to use a walker to assist her with
mobility. She had a portable oxygen tank to wear to church and a stationary tank to use at home,
with a line that would reach every room in the house. She usually left the back door unlocked so
people could just come right in. It was too difficult to answer the door.
In the fall, Momma had bought a lovely, white, lace, dress to wear to church for Easter.
She kept it hanging in her closet and never wore it, saving it for Easter. When Easter morning
rolled around, Momma woke up early so she would have time to primp. She needed the extra
time because by this time physically she had slowed down tremendously. She was determined to
wear her pretty, white, Easter dress. She got up, showered, put on her make-up, curled her cotton
white hair and slipped into the beautiful dress shed been saving for this special occasion. On her
shoulder she carried a purse sized oxygen tank. This was her first trip to church in a wheelchair.
Easter Sunday 2003, was Mommas last time to attend worship services and her last time to
leave home.
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As the days passed I saw her weaken and the white of her eyes was turning to blue. The
reality of my mothers mortality was coming to fruition. In April of that year a hospital bed was
delivered and set up in her living room. She was killing herself, trying to get from the bedroom
to the living room every day. The slightest exertion was so difficult for her.
My brother, Gary, put his life on hold and stayed with my mother every night for the next
four months. My step-dad was illiterate, and the hospice nurses only came twice a week.
Someone needed to stay with her. My sister worked and came when she could. I went by every
day after work. My sons got off the school bus there each afternoon and they, too, helped take
care of Momma. My brother Ronnie lived in Alabama, so he came up every weekend to help
Gary see after her.
I worked on a four day schedule and Mondays were my regular days off. I would stay on
Sunday night to give Gary a break. Someone had to stay up with her at night, to make sure she
didnt flail her arms and knock the oxygen tube out of her nostrils. Her breathing had gotten so
shallow that only of her lungs were working properly and she had tiny pinholes, in the rest of
them, where the air would leak out. On occasion she would struggle to breathe. When she had
difficulty, she would go into a panic attack. Panic attacks often cause hyperventilation, which is
much more severe when suffering from respiratory disease. We would have to administer
morphine drops, under her tongue, to calm her enough to breathe.
I was the choir director at our church that year and always went by to check on Momma,
after church. One Sunday, when I got there my sister, Yvonne, was already there. Momma was
struggling and Yvonne was fanning her. Sometimes pushing cool air directly into her nostrils
helped her breathing. Yvonne looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, Its not helping. I
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went to the head of Mommas bed and leaned over, putting my cheek next to hers and I coached
her.
Come on now Momma, breathe with meIn your nose and out your mouth. Breathe
deep.In your nose and out your mouth
I repeated the sessions a few more times; inhaling and exhaling with her was not working either.
The only thing left to do was to get her mind off of her breathing, so I did the only thing I could
think of. I stepped around to the side of her bed so she could see me, then I smiled and said,
Oh Momma! You should have heard the choir this morning. They sounded so good!
We sang an OLD song. Then I looked at my sister and said, Hey Voni, lets sing for
Momma.
As we began to sing, Mommas little eyes smiled, she calmed down, and began to breathe in a
somewhat normal pattern. We sang, Theres a New Name Written Down in Glory and Its
Mine. It gave her peace. Little did we know that would be the last song she ever heard.
That night, after church, I went back to Mommas house. When I got there, Gary was in
the living room trying to coax Momma into taking her breathing treatment. She refused by
spitting out the mouthpiece of her nebulizer. I told my brother to go into the kitchen, and I took
over. I looked deep into my mothers eyes and said lovingly, Now Momma, you know, you
have to do this. I know you dont like it, but its good for you, and it will help you breathe. You
also know, Im not going to quit until you take it. Now please, Momma, take the breathing
treatment and then Ill leave you alone and let you rest. She smiled at me with her eyes and
took the breathing treatment. After she finished, I smiled at her and said, Thank you, Momma. I
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love you. Now, Ill leave you alone and let you rest. Then I kissed her forehead and she closed
her little brown eyes and drifted off to sleep.
I went to the kitchen and reassured my brother, telling him that she was asleep and
resting peacefully. He could hardly believe it. Since she was resting well, Gary decided to go
home and sleep in his bed, for the first time in four months.
My husband worked at night so I brought my sons with me to Mommas house. My
oldest son slept in my old room, and my youngest slept with his Pappaw. I sat in a chair next to
Mommas bed, watching the frail little woman who had always been my rock, sleep.
It was the month of August, so we kept the air conditioner on high, to keep the room so cool it
was almost cold. It was easier for Momma to breathe the cold air. The house was quiet. All that
could be heard was the blowing of the air conditioner. The lights were dim, just light enough to
see but not bright enough to disturb anyone. Momma slept good from 8:30 p.m. until 3:30 a.m.
At three thirty she began to get a little restless, making a humming sound.
hmmm, sigh, hmmmm..
hmmm, sigh, hmmmm.
She repeated it in her sleep, over and over. I got up and started to fan her, to give her some relief.
It did not seem to help. It was not an uncommon sound, she often sounded that way, so I sat back
down in the chair, rubbed my eyes and forehead, and suddenly realized the room was quiet. I did
not hear Momma anymore. A sick feeling came over me. I got up and said, Momma, are you
okay?
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I felt of her hands, they were cold and stiff. Well, I thought, shes old and stiff, and
this room is cold. I tried to check her pulse but my heart was racing so fast and beating so hard I
could not tell if she had a one or not. Her breathing was so shallow; I could not see her chest rise
and fall. I immediately called my brother and my sister and told them, I think Mommas dead.
At 4 a.m. my brother and sister and I gathered in Mommas kitchen and began making
plans how to handle the next few hours. After calling our brother in Alabama, we called the
hospice nurse. Someone had to legally pronounce her dead. Then we woke up my fourteen-
year- old son. After we told Patrick, we gently woke my Step-father. The nurse came and then
the funeral directors were notified. Momma had a living will and in it were strict orders not to
resuscitate. It was at that time, I woke my nine year old, Joseph. I could not let him wake up to
see his grandmother being carried away to a hearse. Our family gathered around her with our
hands held tightly and we thanked God for taking her so effortlessly. With respiratory diseases
she could have struggled, gasped for air, and had a horrible suffering death, but she did not. God
allowed her to slip off, into paradise, in a quiet peaceful manner.
As I look back on her last day, now I understand why she suddenly settled down when
my sister and I sang to her. Momma knew there was going to be a New Name Written Down in
Glory and it was hers, Orah Pearl Phillips Bizzell Willcutt.
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Sherri Payne
English 111
Stacy Jones
November 3, 2014
Momma
Ive always heard the phrases, Daddys little girl and Mommas boy.Growing up at my
house, things were somewhat different. Mommas boys were grown, by the time I came along
and my older sister was definitely, Daddys little girl. I was the baby of the family,
affectionately referred to by my father as, Brat. When I was eleven, my father died at age 47,
because an aneurysm behind his heart burst. Life, as I knew it, had suddenly changed forever. I
wasnt Brat anymore, tagging along behind my Daddy to the coffee shop or where ever else he
might let me go. There was no one left at home but Momma and me. All of my siblings were
grown, married and living in their own homes.
I was having a difficult time accepting my fathers death, so at the funeral home just before
the funeral, my youngest brother, Gary took it upon himself to have a heart to heart discussion
with me. He told me I had to be strong, for Momma. He said that Daddys death was hard on
her and that since I was the only one, still at home, I would have to step up to the task and really
be there for her. I didnt quite understand how such a strong woman could be so vulnerable, but
I took his words to heart.
Over the years, I became very close to my mother. In her latter years, she developed COPD,
Cardio Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The progression of her condition was expedited by
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pneumonia. It was late summer in 2002, when I first noticed the progression. I had just pulled
into Walmart parking lot searching for the closest parking space to the door, when I spotted my
mothers little white Pontiac Grand AM. Sitting in the drivers seat, with her head slumped over
the steering wheel, was my momma. She had gotten winded, walking to her car, and was
attempting to catch her breath. I honked my horn to arouse her attention. She waved me on in a
manner reassuring me that she was okay.
I saw my mother every day and did not really realize how badly she felt until Thanksgiving of
2002. Her health had deteriorated terribly fast. Momma loved the holidays. She thrived on
having her family around her and serving them. She would spend days planning and cooking for
the family gatherings. When we were all in attendance, there were in excess of 30 people there.
She would cook enough for an army. The food lined the countertops of the kitchen winding
around to the utility room. It was there that the various desserts sat perched atop the washer and
dryer. Before the meal, the entire family would meet in the kitchen, hold hands, and someone
would pray for Gods blessings on our food. Momma was always the last one to fix her plate.
She never sat down to eat until each person had been fed.
Typically, our meal time was at twelve noon. This particular Thanksgiving I went early to see
if Momma needed any help. I arrived at 10:30 am. Normally, Momma would have been up
since at least 6 AM, cleaned the kitchen, showered, and prepared herself for company.
My momma was a fashion conscious lady. She knew what type of clothing fit her body and
she knew how to flaunt it. Every time she bought a new dress she would prance around the room
and twirl like a little girl, a true Miss Priss. When company was coming, she always looked
good. Holidays were special occasions and she dressed up wanting to look her best for family
snapshots. I fully expected to see Momma all dressed up, with her apron on, and working like a
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busy bee in the kitchen. Not this time. As I walked in the back door, the vision I saw was not at
all what I expected. My heart sank and I felt tears wanting to come forth, but I managed to hold
them back. I put on a smile and said, Good Morning! Happy Thanksgiving!
There at the kitchen table, sat my 76 year old mother in her night gown and slippers. Her hair
had not been brushed and it was lying flat against her head where she had nestled on her pillow.
Her hair was so thin you could see her scalp in places. My step-dad stood over the stove cooking
for the family that would soon be arriving.
I told Momma that I was there to help get things ready and all she had to worry about was
getting herself together. A smile of relief came over her face; she gently cupped my cheek with
her hand, looked up at me and said, Thank you Darlin. I love you. She went to the shower and
I got busy.
I cleaned off the table and got smaller tables out of storage. I found the Holiday linens for the
tables and presented the tables to Mommas standards. I swept and mopped the floors,
vacuumed the carpets, cleaned off the countertops to make room for the food, emptied the trash,
and cleaned the bathroom before company arrived. That day I realized that my super-hero
mother was now a frail, little, old lady. From that day forward, things would be different.
Thanksgiving turned out nicely. It was typical in the sense that all of the family gathered
together to share a huge, delicious meal. This time was different; Momma wasnt the last to sit
down. Her children were all grown and we took care of ourselves, and the grandchildren. I took
care of Momma. Seated at the table as the matriarch of our family, was Momma; I served her. I
also made it a point to speak privately to each of my siblings about Momma and her dwindling
physical condition.
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By Christmas, her breathing was shallower and she had to use a walker to assist her with
mobility. She had a portable oxygen tank to wear to church and a stationary tank to use at home,
with a line that would reach every room in the house.
In the fall, Momma had bought a lovely, white, lace, dress to wear to church for Easter. She
kept it hanging in her closet and never wore it, saving it for Easter. When Easter morning rolled
around, Momma woke up early so she would have time to primp. She was determined to wear
her pretty, white, Easter dress. This was her first and last trip to church in a wheelchair. Easter
Sunday 2003, was Mommas last time toattend worship services and her last time to leave home.
As the days passed I saw her weaken and the white of her eyes was turning to blue. The
reality of my mothers mortality was coming to fruition. In April of that year a hospital bed was
delivered and set up in her living room. She was killing herself, trying to get from the bedroom
to the living room every day.
My brother, Gary put his life on hold and stayed with my mother every night for the next 4
months. My step-dad was illiterate and the hospice nurses only came twice a week. Someone
needed to stay with her. My sister worked and came when she could. I went by every day after
work. My sons got off the school bus there each afternoon and they too, helped take care of
Momma. My brother, Ronnie lived in Alabama, so he came up every weekend to help Gary see
after her.
I worked on a four day schedule and Mondays were my regular days off. I would stay on
Sunday night to give Gary a break. Someone had to stay up with her at night, to make sure she
didnt flail her arms and knock the oxygen tube out of her nostrils. Her breathing had gotten so
shallow that only of her lungs were working properly and she had tiny pinholes, in the rest of
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them, where the air would leak out. On occasion she would struggle to breathe. When she had
difficulty, she would go into a panic attack. Panic attacks often cause hyperventilation, which is
much more severe when suffering from respiratory disease. We would have to administer
morphine drops, under her tongue, to calm her enough to breathe.
I was the choir director at our church that year and always went by to check on Momma, after
church. One Sunday, when I got there my sister, Yvonne was already there. Momma was
struggling and Yvonne was fanning her. Sometimes pushing cool air directly into her nostrils
helped her breathing. Yvonne looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, Its not helping. I
went to the head of Mommas bed and leaned over putting my cheek next to hers and I coached
her.
Come on now Momma, breathe with meIn your nose and out your mouth. Breathe
deep.In your nose and out your mouth
I repeated the sessions a few more times; inhaling and exhaling with her wasnt working either.
The only thing left to do was to get her mind off of her breathing, so I did the only thing I could
think of. I stepped around to the side of her bed so she could see me, then I smiled and said,
Oh Momma! You should have heard the choir this morning. They sounded so good!
We sang an OLD song.
Then I looked at my sister and said, Hey Voni, lets sing for Momma.
As we began to sing, Mommas little eyes smiled, she calmed down, and began to breathe in a
somewhat normal pattern. We sang, Theres a New Name Written Down in Glory and Its
Mine. It gave her peace. Little did we know, that would be the last song she ever heard.
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That night, after church, I went back to Mommas house. When I got there, Gary was in the
living room trying to coax Momma into taking her breathing treatment. She refused by spitting
out the mouthpiece of her nebulizer. I told my brother to go into the kitchen and I took over. I
looked deep into my mothers eyes and said lovingly, Now Momma, you know, you have to do
this. I know you dont like it, but its good for you, and it will help you breathe. You also know,
Im not going to quit until you take it. Now please Momma, take the breathing treatment and
then Ill leave you alone and let you rest. She smiled at me with her eyesand took the breathing
treatment. After she finished, I smiled at her and said, Thank you Momma. I love you. Now,
Ill leave you alone and let you rest. Then I kissed her forehead and she closed her little brown
eyes and drifted off to sleep.
I went to the kitchen and reassured my brother, telling him that she was asleep and resting
peacefully. He could hardly believe it. Since she was resting well, Gary decided to go home and
sleep in his bed, for the first time in four months.
My husband worked at night so I brought my sons with me to mommas house. My oldest
son slept in my old room and my youngest slept with his Pappaw. I sat in a chair next to
Mommas bed, watching the frail little woman that had always been my rock, sleep.
It was the month of August, so we kept the air conditioner on high, to keep the room so cool it
was almost cold. It was easier for Momma to breathe the cold air. The house was quiet. All you
could hear was the blowing of the air conditioner. The lights were dim, just light enough to see
but not bright enough to disturb anyone. Momma slept good from 8:30 PM until 3:30 AM. At
three thirty she began to get a little restless, making a humming sound.
hmmm, sigh, hmmmm..
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hmmm, sigh, hmmmm.
She repeated it in her sleep, over and over. I got up and started to fan her, to give her some relief.
It did not seem to help. It was not an uncommon sound, so I sat back down in the chair, rubbed
my eyes and forehead. and suddenly realized the room was quiet. I did not hear Momma
anymore. A sick feeling came over me. I got up and said, Momma, are you okay?
I felt of her hands, they were cold and stiff. Well, I thought, shes old and stiff and this
room is cold. I tried to check her pulse but my heart was racing so fast and beating so hard I
could not tell if she had a one or not. Her breathing was so shallow, I could not see her chest rise
and fall. I immediately called my brother and my sister and told them, I think Mommas dead.
At 4 AM my brother and sister and I gathered in Mommas kitchen and began making plans
how to handle the next few hours. After calling our brother in Alabama, we called the hospice
nurse. Someone had to legally pronounce her dead. Then we woke up my fourteen year old son.
After we told Patrick, we gently woke my Step-father. The nurse came and then the funeral
directors were notified. It was at that time, I woke my nine year old, Joseph. I could not let him
wake up to see his grandmother being carried away to a hearse. Our family gathered around her
with our hands held tightly and we thanked God for taking her so effortlessly. With respiratory
diseases she could have struggled, gasped for air, and had a horrible suffering death, but she did
not. God allowed her to slip off, into paradise, in a quiet peaceful manner.
As I look back on her last day, now I understand why she suddenly settled down when my
sister and I sang to her. Momma knew there was going to be a New Name Written Down in
Glory and it was hers, Orah Pearl Phillips Bizzell Willcutt.
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Excellent detail. There were only a few places that might be enhanced by a bit more detail or
elaboration. There are portions that would benefit from a bit of new sentence combinations; for
more information, take a look at the following site:
http://bccw3.wordpress.com/2011/06/15/combining-short-choppy-sentences/
Paper Grade: 95/A
A = Superior Work: All requirements are met and most are exceeded. The idea is developed withexactness, creativity, and originality. The thesis clearly presents all elements of the topic. The
essay is organized through topic sentences and paragraph patterns. The essay also contains
effective transitions: parallel structure, varied sentence beginnings, lengths, and types; lively
verbs; examples; concrete details. This essay has few, if any, errors in grammar, mechanics,
spelling, or usage.
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Sherri Payne
Stacy Jones
English 111
December 8, 2014
SELF-CRITIQUE
The memoir about my mother was my strongest essay. It was the easiest for me to write.
My memories of her are my most vivid and that made writing about her a simple task. The
thoughts would pop into my mind and simply flow right out the tips of my fingers. The
description of my frail little momma, on Thanksgiving, is a good example of that. I did a good
job drawing in the reader on an emotional level: when coaching my mother with her breathing
and when determining whether or not she was still alive. Overall I like this essay the best. It was
a memory I will never forget and now that it is in a literary form maybe my future grandchildren
will one day enjoy reading about their great- grand-momma.
My informative paper on the American Legion is definitely my weakest essay. It
contained very much information and statistics, which I found a challenge to make exciting. I
am impressedby the many good works done by the American Legion, however, there were too
many to mention without sounding like a list. In order to improve my paper, I would begin by
adding a more personal touch by adding more real life stories. The story about the major league
baseball player and the one about the fishing trip added more reality to the paper. Human
interest stories are usually a good read. I did add visuals and that was a good addition to the
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essay. To make the essay more enticing, and to draw in the reader, more personal stories are
needed.
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