Allusions and Personification Foster Personal Connection in "Memorial Service" by Leslie Norris

The strength in “Memorial Service” written by Leslie Norris comes from the image of a red balloon. This balloon serves as the personification of Norris’ memories of a loved one. The beginning of the poem uses many words to give motion and life to the balloon, words such as “glides” and “rising up.” When the balloon has been given life Norris continues on to associate the balloon with her memories. The direct personification of these memories into the balloon is found in the last section of the poem, “I still hold tight to/memories of you/your bright string of poems.” The key words and phrases that bring these memories into a comparison with the balloon being, “hold tight to” and “your bright string.” The imagery and word choice makes it clear that the balloon is a theme throughout the poem and represents the memories she holds so dear.

Although this poem seems to be a nice narration of the life of a balloon and the special memories that are held of loved ones who have passed on, there are actually a few references to LDS culture and values found in this writing. The first is the value LDS people place on life.  We hold onto the memories of others. We cherish what they have done for us and the lessons they have taught. In our LDS culture we hold onto the writings of those who have come before us to honor and learn from them, holding onto these memories is an inherent part of our culture.

The second allusion to LDS culture found in this poem is in the following section, “Whether it can find/your path or no.” This demonstrates the uncertainty we have for the immediate stage after death. In the LDS culture, we believe in a stage of paradise or prison directly after death, depending on our actions while on Earth. However, the specifications of that stage of life are still unclear to us.

I found that the subtle allusions to LDS culture were really beautiful. They weren’t overstated or direct, but they were present and I could relate to them. I felt a connection to the poem because I too have lost people that are close to me and hold on to the memories I have with them like a child holds on to their precious red balloon. 

Meeting In The Living Room of Memories

Revision:
Based off of comments and the teacher conference I had with Professor Gideon Burton, I want to make some revisions to my personal essay. I plan on introducing the difference in this family gathering sooner, as well as going into more detail about the theme of family in the Book of Mormon.



I opened my off-white bedroom door, hearing the familiar creak that would accompany it only after it was two thirds of the way open. I walked down the hallway, avoiding the parts of the floor that seemed to cry in anguish when stepped on, towards my family room, which had light protruding from it. The hustle and bustle of life was overwhelmingly loud: kids were running and screaming everywhere, playing tag or driving pretend cars through the adults' legs, my brothers talked about work and their recent endeavors sporadically while listening to the game that was on the television, and the women in our family spoke of what women talk about, their topics of conversation never on one consistent track.

It was unusual to have every single family member present at that same time. Every special occasion seems to always have someone missing; whether for work or travels or something unexpected. This occasion had everyone there, laughing and enjoying the stories of memories made together, but had a thick tension in the air that seemed to suffocate everyone. Everyone was there because this occasion was different.

The couches in my family room weren't big enough to hold everyone, so the men had slid the rolling chairs from the kitchen to the edge of where the dining room hardwood met the family room carpet so they could be a part of the conversation that would soon begin. The setup was almost like every other family gathering: Christmas, except the people are split up into their own families, facing the Christmas tree in front of the window, and kids sitting impatiently on the floor waiting for their toys to be opened before they can go play. Birthday parties, where everyone sits randomly and the birthday girl/boy sits with almost a whole couch to themselves to make room for their presents. New Years, except with our family more centered around the table and the food, rather than the usual carpeted gathering place.

So many memories decorate the smells and the laughter of the room constantly occupied with people: Announcements that someone is pregnant, the laughter and competitive spirits created by the new Wii placed in front of the living room, the music that our family seems to somehow be centered on from fun nights of karaoke and dance parties, the center of blanket forts and cardboard box towns, a home theater filled with reclining chairs and popcorn, and even a counseling office.

There, in the middle of all the craziness, were my parents, holding hands, distant, but still smiling at the recalled memories. This was odd for my mom to be sitting in a house full of people, normally she'd be up making food of some sort, or getting her grandkids drinks. But not this time, she just sat next to my dad, tears and fears showing themselves in her wise and understanding brown eyes. Trials and adversity polka-dotted their marriage and the love that they had made at such a young age. They faced each trial together, as a team, and never let the other fall. The next one would be no excuse to their unity.

I sat down on the floor, my back leaning against the piano bench that faces the east wall. It had been a long day. The immense amount of emotions in me conflicted in every way, making me feel hollow. The family dinner we just had was one I'll never forget. One thing I knew for sure: I was grateful for my family, and I loved them. I knew that what the near future held for us was going to bring our family even closer together. We would need each other to lean on.

Sitting there, observing my family, I thought of a scripture from the Book of Mormon, "Now behold, there was no man among them save he had much family and many kindreds and friends; therefore their tribes became exceedingly great." Not only did we have a lot of family in that room, but because we had a family, we were "exceedingly great." My family is not perfect. We are not the typical American Dream family. But we still have something precious and of great worth just being part of a family. My family is the biggest support I have. They lift me up. They have helped me grow into the person I am today. They are priceless and of exceedingly great importance to me.

The family theme is very prevalent throughout the Book of Mormon. Lehi left all of his gold and treasures to go to the wilderness, but he made sure he had his family with him. Nephi took his family, his wife's family, and the family of the brothers who believed, and left Laman and Lemuel's family to protect his own. People traveled in families and stuck together. They worshipped together, they worked together. This theme has immersed itself into my family where we worship, work, and rejoice together. They're the center of my life. They're the ones I would follow into a wilderness of our own. The ones I will do anything to protect.

 My family, the one that has bonded over years of meeting in that family room, came together again that night with a different fear than any of us had felt before. We had all fasted that day - even the family member who had separated himself from religion - for my mom. The kids had finally all come to a stop at the foot of the couches, sensing the somberness, as we sat in silence for a few moments. Tears flowed easily from even the strongest of eyes. And then, in the middle of the living room that cemented our memories together, as one exceedingly great and giant family, we knelt in prayer for my mom, who was going in to surgery to have her breast cancer removed the following day.

Meeting In The Living Room of Memories

I opened my off-white bedroom door, hearing the familiar creak that would accompany it only after it was two thirds of the way open. I walked down the hallway, avoiding the parts of the floor that seemed to cry in anguish when stepped on, towards my family room, which had light protruding from it. The hustle and bustle of life was overwhelmingly loud: kids were running and screaming everywhere, playing tag or driving pretend cars through the adults' legs, my brothers talked about work and their recent endeavors sporadically while listening to the game that was on the television, and the women in our family spoke of what women talk about, their topics of conversation never on one consistent track.

The couches in my family room weren't big enough to hold everyone, so the men had slid the rolling chairs from the kitchen to the edge of where the dining room hardwood met the family room carpet so they could be a part of the conversation that would soon begin. The setup was almost like every other family gathering: Christmas, except the people are split up into their own families, facing the Christmas tree in front of the window, and kids sitting impatiently on the floor waiting for their toys to be opened before they can go play. Birthday parties, where everyone sits randomly and the birthday girl/boy sits with almost a whole couch to themselves to make room for their presents. New Years, except with our family more centered around the table and the food, rather than the usual carpeted gathering place.

So many memories decorate the smells and the laughter of the room constantly occupied with people: Announcements that someone is pregnant, the laughter and competitive spirits created by the new Wii placed in front of the living room, the music that our family seems to somehow be centered on from fun nights of karaoke and dance parties, the center of blanket forts and cardboard box towns, a home theater filled with reclining chairs and popcorn, and even a counseling office. My family has seen it all and have been strengthened by the activities that our family room has held.

It was unusual to have every single family member present at that same time. Every special occasion seems to always have someone missing; whether for work or travels or something unexpected. But this occasion had everyone there, laughing and enjoying the stories; memories made together. Everyone was there because this occasion was different.

There, in the middle of all the craziness, were my parents, holding hands, distant, but still smiling at the recalled memories. This was odd for my mom to be sitting in a house full of people, normally she'd be up making food of some sort, or getting her grandkids drinks. But not this time, she just sat next to my dad, tears and fears showing themselves in her wise and understanding brown eyes. Trials and adversity polka-dotted their marriage and the love that they had made at such a young age. They faced each trial together, as a team, and never let the other fall. The next one would be no excuse to their unity.

I sat down on the floor, my back leaning against the piano bench that faces the east wall. The immense amount of emotions in me conflicted in every way, making me feel hollow. One thing I knew for sure: I was grateful for my family, and I loved them. I knew that what the near future held for us was going to bring our family even closer together. We would need each other to lean on.

Sitting there, observing my family, I thought of 3 Nephi 7:4 "Now behold, there was no man among them save he had much family and many kindreds and friends; therefore their tribes became exceedingly great." Not only did we have a lot of family in that room, but because we had a family, we were "exceedingly great." My family is not perfect. We are not the typical American Dream family. But we still have something precious and of great worth just being part of a family. My family is the biggest support I have. They lift me up. They have helped me grow into the person I am today. They are priceless and of exceedingly great importance to me.

My family, the one that has bonded over years of meeting in that family room, came together again that night with a different fear than any of us had felt before. We had all fasted that day - even the family member who had separated himself from religion - for my mom. The kids had finally all come to a stop at the foot of the couches, sensing the somberness, as we sat in silence for a few moments. Tears flowed easily from even the strongest of eyes. And then, in the middle of the living room that cemented our memories together, as one exceedingly great and giant family, we knelt in prayer for my mom, who was going in to surgery to have her breast cancer removed the following day.

The family pictures that were taken before my mom's surgery.

Father and Son

For my first year of EFY I traveled to the University of Utah with my brother and a good friend. Excited and enjoying the experience, we waited for the welcoming fireside by our session director. After all these years I still remember the story.

He told a story of a train controller and the man’s son. One day his son came to work with him and they enjoyed a nice day. He heard a train whistle and knew he needed to raise the bridge and let the train go through. Unfortunately at the moment he needed to push the lever and lower the bridge, he looked down and saw that his son had slipped through and was stuck in the gears of the bridge. The father had to make a decision whether to save the hundreds of people in the train or his son. The father was heartbroken but pushed the lever to lower the bridge. Just like this father, Heavenly Father also made a decision. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Begotten Son that whosoever would believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

When my session director used this story to make a startling metaphor, he was trying to make an impact on our minds. Sometimes as youth we feel like we have heard everything and know all, so I think we needed something that penetrated into our hearts. I am not saying this is exactly doctrine but I will say that it helped me understand the love that our Heavenly Father has for each one of us. I know it was always part of The Plan that Christ would die but this story helped me actually feel it in a different way. I had a newfound love and gratefulness for Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. 

The Story Must Change

Every summer my family and I take a vacation to our cabin in Michigan. It’s a tiny cabin that sits between two small lakes. I haven’t gone a single summer of my life without visiting this special spot.

Most of my strongest childhood memories come from these cabin trips. It’s a child’s dream come true; fishing, daydreaming, and exploring the thick woods and wild apple trees that surround the lakes.

A trip to the cabin would not be complete without my father’s retelling of his scary stories before bed each night. His most well known story is called, “The Great White Ape”.

The story is given differently each time, but the plot always remains: The weather is dark and stormy. We find a castle and enter to find a giant white ape in a cage with a sign that reads, “Do NOT touch the Great White Ape.” Well someone always ends up touching the Ape and chaos ensues. The Great White Ape breaks from the cage and chases us around the house until he catches us. Tension mounts and the end seems near— it’s in that moment that the Ape reaches out and taps us with one finger, saying, “Tag! You’re it.”

There are many reasons why this oral literary tradition has made such a profound impact upon me, but what always stunned me is the fact that the story always changed! When new brothers were born, new characters were added. Details about how we found the castle or how the Ape was first touched were also apt to change. And this is what made our tradition so special. I learned an important concept: art and literature adapt. It’s this aspect of change that makes life and storytelling so mystifying. There is always a new story to be told.