Dear Ana,

I had a hard time with this letter when I first sat down to write to you. Starting ‘things’ is
not always the easiest for me to do. My stepfather and I talk about inertia, and how a body in
motion tends to stay in motion so “just take that first step!”. Finding the confidence within
myself to take those scary first steps has always been one of my life challenges, but I finally feel
that at 41 it is getting easier. Things change and evolve (hopefully) as we age, and this is a story
about the changing relationship between my mother and me.
I decided to reread all the essays in hopes of finding a place to start. I thought I
remembered them all until I came across “My Mother Calls Me” by Michelle Myers and read it
for a second time. It must have settled somewhere in my subconscious because I felt like our
works were very similar. The calling of names to evoke memories, the dialogue usage, the
present tense utilized to bring the reader into the story with us, and the unavoidable fear of losing
our mothers all being a major drive behind both essays.
I also “stole” a few techniques from “Driving William Stafford” because the way that
essay was structured was something completely new to me. It forced me to read it several times,
revealing different layers each time. The repetitive phrases were intriguing to me, as was the
time (tense) shift, so I tried to weave those into my work as well.
It took a whole evening of brainstorming to decide on what story I wanted to tell. After I
decided on the subject the writing came easy. I did struggle with tense, as well as a logical flow
at first. The story made sense to me because I lived it and could fill in the gaps in my head. I
must remember that I am writing for someone who has no knowledge of me or my story, and it is
up to me to paint a picture with my words for them.
I do have the great fortune to have an aunt who is a retired English professor available to
do rough draft reviews for me. She is the one that pointed out my tense shifts, and confusing
geographical elements in my essay. I got those fixed, and I must say I am proud of myself. Every
time I read it; I cry. I sent it to my family, they cried. My best friend said that he was shopping
with his mother this weekend and it made him think of my essay. To me all of that is high praise.
To connect emotionally with a reader can be so difficult. But when using a wider theme, it is
easy to appeal to a broad swath of readers. The narrow theme seems to be what takes a story
forward. I hope that makes sense!
I also struggled with whittling it down to 750 words, which is weird for me. In the past I
would struggle to get to the minimum word requirements. Granted, that past was 20 years ago,
and I was in a completely different headspace. I enjoyed the challenge of finding different ways
of saying the same thing in a more economical way. And in doing so, I realized that I was
employing the skills I learned so far in this class. I had to analyze how successful I was in
communicating my story using planning, composing, organizing, and revising. Using those skills
helped take my writing to the next level.
When thinking about my Rhetorical situation, I almost feel as if there is a wider and
narrower one within the assignment itself. There is one within my essay, as well as one within
my reality. My essay is about me and my mom (WHO) going of treasure hunting (WHAT) in the
streets of Albuquerque (WHERE) on a Saturday morning (WHEN) to spend time together and
bond (WHY). We were also asked to think about a rhetorical situation outside of you and class
that could be for anyone, even the website you got our reading from. That caused something to
click in my head. Never would I ever think about writing something to submit before this. The
anxiety of someone judging me would be overwhelming. But in the past four weeks something
has shifted. Why can’t I be writing for a Brevity submission editor (WHO) that is looking for
personal essays (WHAT) to be published on their website (WHERE) right now (WHEN)
because I am proud of it (WHY)? The answer is I can!

Sincerely,
Christie Vessells
 The Treasure Hunt

“You are gonna have to get up early if you want to find the good stuff” my mom tells me

Friday night as she sits in her chair weaving toothbrush rugs. I sigh a bit to myself as I make my

bed on the couch in the living room that is occupied during the day by her four chihuahuas. “I

know mom. That’s why I’m staying the night.” Our relationship has come a long way since I was

a sarcastic, self-absorbed teen yearning to flee my parents’ house and get out on my own. We

have come to enjoy each other’s company as I continue my journey of self-maturation, and a

favorite activity of ours is treasure hunting. These are all day affairs punctuated with stops for

drive-thru ice cream cones and energy drinks purchased from gas stations. We never have

anything specific in mind, but that is no matter.

We stop at every garage or estate sale we can find, driving up and down city streets

hunting for neon colored signs. Some with oversized lettering, some with just arrows. When we

spot one a little jolt of excitement runs from the tops of our heads to the tips of our toes. My

mom jerkily parallel parks slightly too far from the curb while I crane my neck trying to scope

out the goods. We walk into the estate sale hand in hand, singing the song that had been playing

just moments before on the car stereo. She plants a kiss on my cheek, wishes me luck, and

spirits away on her solo expedition leaving me to start my own hunt.

I find the box of CDs sitting in a back bedroom, and I flash back to the countless hours I

spent listening to loud, angry music in my back bedroom. Navigating the morose vastness of my

teenage years alone. Trying to get her attention. Turning the knob further and further to the right,
volume being my chosen weapon in this war. The banging coming from the other side of the

door seemingly in time with the music blaring from my speakers.

“CHRISTIE!!!!!!”

“TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!!!!”

“CHRISTIE!!!

“LOOK AT THIS!!”

My mother calls for me from another room like we were at home, pulling me back to the

present. I walk through a narrow doorway and she shows me a cabinet full of all kinds of

kitchen ware. We sift through someone else’s memories, imagining how these objects could

overlay themselves onto memories of our own. I come across a huge stockpot that is perfect for

canning. We recently made a batch of bourbon peaches, and she taught me from start to finish

how to do it. I am on a mission to build up my portfolio of life skills, and this is just one of the

many I have learned from my mother.

We go through every nook and cranny in the house, not wanting to let any treasure

escape discovery. After we are sure we hunted everywhere high and low, we gather our finds and

get in line to pay. When it is our turn, we discover everything is 50% off because it is the last

day, adding the first layer of sweetness to our new shared memory. We head home with a trunk

full of rescued treasures. Two blocks away from her house she spots a dayglo pink sign with the

words “MOVING SALE!! EVERYTHING MUST GO!!!” She gives me a look of excitement

and I know there is no dissuading her.

 It has been a long day. My feet and back hurt, I miss my dogs and my wife, and I had

already spent way too much money. My mom jerkily parallel parks slightly too far from the curb

and turns off the car. We walk in, me slightly behind and annoyed just like when I was a teen.

My mom wanders off and I strike up a conversation with the woman who is running the sale.

“Is that your mom?” she asks me.

“Yeah” I answer.

“You look like her. My mom and I used to go garage sale-ing too. This was her house.”

I look at her and suddenly see the grief etched into the lines around her face, the watery

film of tears starting to cover her eyes. My heart lurches and I feel fear. Where is my mom?

“CHRISTIE!!”

“PUPPY!! COME LOOK WHAT I FOUND!!!”

My lips start to smile as I turn to see what treasure has sparked the delight in her voice.