How do we see our neighbors and how do they see us when we’re traveling and living in a new place?
Photo: L*U*Z*A
1.
I’VE NEVER SEEN him in town. I’ve never seen him anywhere except walking to or from the fields. Either that or working in his yard. He never stops working. He always has something in his hands or over his shoulder: a bushel of kale, a wheelbarrow loaded with carrots, a hose, a water pump, a shovel, a roll of bailing wire, a machete, a stack of fenceboards.
Even New Years, standing with his sons drinking beer by the fire, it was like he was just waiting to fix something, to tie up the dogs if they kept chasing firecrackers, to twist one more loop of wire around a broken table leg.
2.
Since we’ve moved here¹ eight months ago the fields have been divided up for future neighborhoods. Two roads have been cut. A windbreak of 100 foot-tall poplars was chainsawed. (When they first started falling, everyone came out of their houses to watch, then later it just became part of the noise and activity in the barrio). Somebody from Buenos Aires started building the first apartment complex. Six of Abuelo’s grandkids and two of his kids moved out of the house, and so he portioned off that side, gave it its own entrance, and started renting it out to a woman who sweeps her concrete stoop wearing sweatpants and has taken in a stray dog with three pups that keep escaping through the bottom of the fence and crying for food at our door.
3.
Today I saw him walking back from town. I saw him from a long ways off. I recognize his walk. He’s super thin, super small, but seems very strong and walks with this super straight back. He had on hemmed bluejeans. He wasn’t wearing his mud boots. He had on a light coat that I’d never seen before. He had his hand in his coat as if warming it. As we got closer though I thought I saw a bit of white bandage around the hand that was in his coat. I thought: “He’s just come back from the hospital. That’s the only time he goes into town. Damn, what happened to his hand?”
But as if I needed to cover up what I was thinking, I just said “Que tal?” and then quickly added, “Pretty cold isn’t it?”
“Pretty cold,” he said. “Bastante frio.”
But it wasn’t that cold really. It had actually warmed up and seemed like it was going to start raining again.
I never really know what to say to Abuelo Colque.
But I use “usted” when I talk to him.
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¹ El Bolsón, Patagonia, Argentina
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thanks manito.
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Soulful portrait, delicate, lyrical writing, sledgehammer of a last line. Classic.
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Sweet piece, David. Love the structure of it: the daily life changes in El Bolson sandwiched between the general portrait of Abuelo and the encounter when you saw him walking back from town.
Funny how we talk about the weather when we not sure what to say. It seems universal, I guess because it’s something ’safe’ and something we know both parties experience. It’s the same with the guy who runs the shop near my house – we talk about the weather a lot, though I s’pose it’s different in that he’ll also laugh at me when I stub my toe or can’t control my dog!
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thanks nick.
talking about the weather is definitely universal. down here it’s like a code though. you don’t just get in a remis (like a taxi) and not say anything. you’ve gotta say soemthing, just because . .. .
and so you talk about the weather. . . .
the simplest way to find common ground.
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Hi David,
Loved it. Lovely slice-of-life story.
Heart-warming ;
so few words, so atmospheric.
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thanks so much for the kind words.
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Hi David,
Will you please write on ladder of abstraction in writing. and also the best examples you have come across, climbing up and down the ladder.
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thanks for the request.
i’m not really sure what ‘ladder of abstraction’ is…
can you reference?
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Hi David,
thanks for acceding to my request.
This is actually from gangrey.com, the best thing, i tell you. all the best young journalists from st petersburg times started this. really wonderful. long back there was this. and also remember roy peter clark of poynter referencing this.
here from gangrey :
TIP BY JACK HART OF THE OREGONIAN
Some writers are simply better at finding meaning. Their habits of mind find connections that other writers miss. They discover patterns in what others see as chaotic thickets of information. And they have a knack for explaining their findings in ways that relate to the lives of their readers.
No doubt some of that ability flows from God-given talent.
A good education counts for something, too. But the ability to find meaning is also a skill. Any writer can get better at it.
One route to improvement is to copy somebody who’s already mastered the skill. And the most analytical writers I know, the ones who make stories significant by finding connections that make them more meaningful, follow specific strategies.
One of the most successful exploits the ladder of abstraction, a concept popularized by S.I. Hayakawa a half- century ago. The semanticist’s book, “Language in Thought and Action,” still makes good reading for reporters and editors.
The idea is that everything falls into a hierarchy that ranges from the most concrete – individual objects in the visible world – to the most abstract – the sweeping ideas that have broad application to the whole universe of experience.
The first rung of a typical abstraction ladder might represent Hugo, my neighbor’s cocker spaniel. The next rung might represent “spaniels.” The next: “dogs.” Then “mammals,” “animals”
and so on.
As a reader, I may have no particular interest in Hugo. But if a news feature begins with Hugo, and ascends the ladder of abstraction to a generalization about all dogs, then maybe I can see how it connects with Speedy, my ill-behaved Dalmatian. If it can help me keep Speedy off the couch, I’m interested.
The same technique can work for a variety of stories. Say, for example, that a reporter stops into a greasy spoon for a quick burger. She strikes up a conversation with Madge, the waitress, who promptly plops herself down at the table and gabs away. The reporter notices the strange notations that fill the woman’s order pad, and she asks about them. She finds out that the code has been passed down through a long line of cooks and waitresses.
The reporter is fascinated by the order code. It’s a form a brief hand, she thinks, similar to what she herself uses for taking notes. And brief hand is an informal version of shorthand, a code that represents a more complete language. Maybe there are principles that apply to all such codes?
She calls a linguist at the local university. That leads to several experts on shorthand systems and how they operate. The reporter has herself a Sunday lifestyle story.
She opens her story with a vignette describing Madge as she jots down a big order and barks it out to the short-order cook.
She describes a few of the arcane scribbles that Madge enters on her order pad.
Then comes her nut graf:
“The language on the order pad is brief hand, a code that summarizes language for hurried note-takers. Waitresses, secretaries, delivery-truck drivers and reporters all have their own versions. But, as it turns out, certain principles apply to all brief-hand systems. Knowing those can help anybody take faster, more thorough and more accurate notes.”
Ah ha. Now a story is broad enough to interest a huge swath of possible readers — even journalists. And it also promises to use specific examples that will add color, emotion and tangible application.
The technique can work with just about any subject. A tactic used by labor negotiators can reveal something about resolving all kinds of disputes, including those between husbands and wives. John Glenn’s return to space might lead to a feature on the principles of staying active through old age. Roman architecture might connect to modern garden design.
The only constant is the habit of mind that leads a writer to move up the ladder of abstraction, out into a broader concept and down into the real world again. The only requirement is that the landing point is somewhere close to the daily concerns of
readers.what i want is more examples, many many more examples. and how travel writers deal here.
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