Eve Bunting. Author Study EDN 541 Ashley J. Hayden. Art Imitating Life.
Ashley J. Hayden
small town of Maghera.
Bunting and her husband to immigrate to
the United States of America in 1958 with
their three young children.
which is about a father and son going to the Vietnam wall to
find the grandfather's name. And it's from the heart, and I can't
read it aloud myself without crying, so I don't ever try to read
that one on a podium.”
after thing, but hope for the future.”
Eve Bunting carefully manipulates language in such a manner that allows the reader to vividly live the events of her texts.
A woman with a thick braid of black hair pulls at my arm. She’s wearing a long, colored skirt that brushes the ground beneath her coat. There’s a little girl with her and a man in loose white pants that flap in the wind. The woman tugs harder on my arm and
points to the ferry, which is chugging away from the dock. She’s talking
to me and I don’t understand the words, but I can see she’s
“What’s she saying?” Mike asks me.
“I think she’s worried because the boat’s gone,” I say.
I smile at the woman. “It’s OK,” I say. “There’ll be another boat.”
I point at the ferry, then at the end of the line, then back at the ferry.
I make a turn-around sweep with my arm. “Another will come.”
She smiles and nods, and I can tell she understands and feels better.
~A Picnic in October
(rich, descriptive language – beautiful language that allows and
encourages readers to “experience” the story or poem)
Eve Bunting breathes life into her characters. She crafts them in such a way that their experiences, attitudes, and emotions are unquestionably human.
“I’d wanted to se a golden blaze so dazzling it would hurt our eyes. But
Above us there was only a green stubble with a patch or two of wilted yellow.
“They’re dandelions,” I said, fighting down a rush of disappointment. “You can hardly tell.”
“They’re not very pretty Zoe,” Rebecca said. “I wish they were prettier.”
“They will be,” Papa said quickly. “They’ll cover the roof and they’ll shout: ‘This is home!’ But their roots have to take hold
first, ‘Becca. It isn’t easy being transplanted.”
“Maybe they’ll never bloom,” Mama said. “Maybe they’ll just die of loneliness” Then she
squeezed my hand. “Oh, Zoe! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…you were such a dear girl to think-”
I interrupted. “They’ll bloom, Mama. They’re strong, like us.” I was almost crying and I didn’t
Mama and Papa were looking at each other. This was about more than the dandelions.
I could feel it.
Then Mama gave a shaky little sigh.
The sun was rising, red on the line of distance as the four of us stood, looking at the roof. I hoped
maybe one, just one, dandelion might lift its head for us. But not even one did.
Mama put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
“Don’t expect a miracle Zoe. It will take time.”
“Can you wait?” I asked, my voice muffled against her.
“I can wait,” Mama said.
(voice – stories actually allow a human being to emerge in the writing)
a diverse array of cultures other than