I’m preparing the last lesson for my summer writing class, and once again I read through John Steinbeck’s short story, “The Chrysanthemums”.  I read and sigh at the beauty of the writing, of the words, of the vivid portrayal of the characters. I rediscover  a major influence in my life, in my writing. To take a few lone words and string them together to create such depth and meaning. Words that bubble up off the page and cause my heart to dance. Does this short story inspire everyone with it’s melodious language? Of course not, but who can deny the impact of this story. I can hear the sighs now, not of joy as I respond, but of  “No… not another reader response!”

The Chrysanthemums   (excerpt )

 John Steinbeck – 1938

The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas river, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves. 

It was a time of quiet and of waiting.The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain did not go together.

http://nbu.bg/webs/amb/american/4/steinbeck/chrysanthemums.htm