Springboard grade 11, unit 1

It began with split-pea soup.

I was sitting with Great Aunt Corinthia (my dad's cousin

or something, twice-removed, whatever that means,

some kind of "shirt tail relative," according to my mom)

in the dining room of her nursing home.

Great Aunt Corinthia is not eating.

She's gazing into her bowl of soup

as if the secret of life, or at the very least, answers

to all of her unanswered questions, were in there somewhere,

floating in her bowl of split-pea soup.

She whispers to me:

It's the color the grass turned the year of the drought

when Papa and Grandpa nearly lost the farm and I found

Papa crying out by the barn,

kickin' the dickens out of a milk pail.

First time I figured out that grown-ups

can't fix everything.

I'm focused on that drought

and what it might have been like when

Great Aunt Corinthia takes a sudden detour into a story

about chicken pox and her first "beau."

Beau? Oh, I get it: boyfriend. Not "bow" like something tied up with ribbon.

Now Corinthia is talking swiftly, a sly smile

smoothing out the wrinkles in the corners of her mouth

as she's telling me

secret beau stuff and how her nickname was Cory.

I don't think I'd better repeat these confidences to Dad. Or Mom.

Great aunts don't have adventures, right?

Corinthia's still talking, memories slipping through her fingers

like sleek satin ribbon, sliding in and around my mind,

and she's taking me somewhere with her,

tugging on that ribbon.

She's driving cross-country in a time when "nice girls"

just didn't take off on their own,

and I'm grinning.

Who knew that Great Aunt Corinthia lived for more than

knitting scratchy, itch-making, mile-long scarves?

Lunch is almost over, and we've gotten her married,

recovered from illness, the birth of six children,

death of her husband, off to college at forty-seven.

(She tells me she's still working on her degree

in art history. Planning to go back as soon as she

gets out of this place.

Another couple of semesters and she'll

be a bona fide college graduate.)

Great Aunt Corinthia leans closer, confides:

I was tops in my class.

Her soup is cold.

The ice cream that arrived sometime

when Corinthia was telling about

falling out of the walnut tree is melted.

Lunch time is over; the other ladies

are leaving slowly out the double doors,

some wobbling on bird-thin legs,

others doing slow rolls in wheelchairs.

I help Corinthia wrap up some snacks for later—

like these white-flour rolls

she's been casting glances at for the last five minutes . . .

Which choice BEST describes the setting of "Conversing with Corinthia"?

• a nursing home

• the inside of a car

• a dried up field

• the inside of a barn

It began with split-pea soup.

I was sitting with Great Aunt Corinthia (my dad's cousin

or something, twice-removed, whatever that means,

some kind of "shirt tail relative," according to my mom)

in the dining room of her nursing home.

Great Aunt Corinthia is not eating.

She's gazing into her bowl of soup

as if the secret of life, or at the very least, answers

to all of her unanswered questions, were in there somewhere,

floating in her bowl of split-pea soup.

She whispers to me:

It's the color the grass turned the year of the drought

when Papa and Grandpa nearly lost the farm and I found

Papa crying out by the barn,

kickin' the dickens out of a milk pail.

First time I figured out that grown-ups

can't fix everything.

I'm focused on that drought

and what it might have been like when

Great Aunt Corinthia takes a sudden detour into a story

about chicken pox and her first "beau."

Beau? Oh, I get it: boyfriend. Not "bow" like something tied up with ribbon.

Now Corinthia is talking swiftly, a sly smile

smoothing out the wrinkles in the corners of her mouth

as she's telling me

secret beau stuff and how her nickname was Cory.

I don't think I'd better repeat these confidences to Dad. Or Mom.

Great aunts don't have adventures, right?

Corinthia's still talking, memories slipping through her fingers

like sleek satin ribbon, sliding in and around my mind,

and she's taking me somewhere with her,

tugging on that ribbon.

She's driving cross-country in a time when "nice girls"

just didn't take off on their own,

and I'm grinning.

Who knew that Great Aunt Corinthia lived for more than

knitting scratchy, itch-making, mile-long scarves?

Lunch is almost over, and we've gotten her married,

recovered from illness, the birth of six children,

death of her husband, off to college at forty-seven.

(She tells me she's still working on her degree

in art history. Planning to go back as soon as she

gets out of this place.

Another couple of semesters and she'll

be a bona fide college graduate.)

Great Aunt Corinthia leans closer, confides:

I was tops in my class.

Her soup is cold.

The ice cream that arrived sometime

when Corinthia was telling about

falling out of the walnut tree is melted.

Lunch time is over; the other ladies

are leaving slowly out the double doors,

some wobbling on bird-thin legs,

others doing slow rolls in wheelchairs.

I help Corinthia wrap up some snacks for later—

like these white-flour rolls

she's been casting glances at for the last five minutes . . .

Which line from the poem BEST supports the answer to question 1?

• in the dining room of her nursing home

• it's the color the grass turned the year of the drought

• Papa crying out by the barn

• She's driving cross country in a time when "nice girls" didn't

Tags

CCSS.RL.11-12.1