Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. In this short story, a family contemplates losing their house. Home by Gwendolyn Brooks [1] What had been wanted was this always, this always to last, the talking softly on this porch, with the snake plant in the jardinière(1) in the southwest corner, and the obstinate(2) slip from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent Michigan fern at the left side of the friendly door. Mama, Maud Martha, and Helen rocked slowly in their rocking chairs, and looked at the late afternoon light on the lawn and at the emphatic(3) iron of the fence and at the poplar tree(4). These things might soon be theirs no longer. Those shafts and pools of light, the tree, the graceful iron, might soon be viewed passively by different eyes. Papa was to have gone that noon, during his lunch hour, to the office of the Home Owners’ Loan. If he had not succeeded in getting another extension, they would be leaving this house in which they had lived for more than fourteen years. There was little hope. The Home Owners’ Loan was hard. They sat, making their plans. “We’ll be moving into a nice flat somewhere,” said Mama. “Somewhere on South Park, or Michigan, or in Washington Park Court.” Those flats, as the girls and Mama knew well, were burdens on wages twice the size of Papa’s. This was not mentioned now. “They’re much prettier than this old house,” said Helen. “I have friends I’d just as soon not bring here. And I have other friends that wouldn’t come down this far for anything, unless they were in a taxi.” [5] Yesterday, Maud Martha would have attacked her. Tomorrow she might. Today she said nothing. She merely gazed at a little hopping robin in the tree, her tree, and tried to keep the fronts of her eyes dry. “Well, I do know,” said Mama, turning her hands over and over, “that I’ve been getting tireder and tireder of doing that firing. From October to April, there’s firing to be done.” “But lately we’ve been helping, Harry and I,” said Maud Martha. “And sometimes in March and April and in October, and even in November, we could build a little fire in the fireplace. Sometimes the weather was just right for that.” She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry. But she felt that the little line of white, sometimes ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron(5) would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here. The birds on South Park were mechanical birds, no better than the poor caught canaries in those “rich” women’s sun parlors. [10] “It’s just going to kill Papa!” burst out Maud Martha. “He loves this house! He lives for this house!” He lives for us,” said Helen. “It’s us he loves. He wouldn’t want the house, except for us.” “And he’ll have us,” added Mama, “wherever.” “You know,” Helen sighed, “if you want to know the truth, this is a relief. If this hadn’t come up, we would have gone on, just dragged on, hanging out here forever.” “It might,” allowed Mama, “be an act of God. God may just have reached down and picked up the reins.” [15] “Yes,” Maud Martha cracked in, “that’s what you always say — that God knows best.” Her mother looked at her quickly, decided the statement was not suspect, looked away. Helen saw Papa coming. “There’s Papa,” said Helen. They could not tell a thing from the way Papa was walking. It was that same dear little staccato(6) walk, one shoulder down, then the other, then repeat, and repeat. They watched his progress. He passed the Kennedys’, he passed the vacant(7) lot, he passed Mrs. Blakemore’s. They wanted to hurl themselves over the fence, into the street, and shake the truth out of his collar. He opened his gate — the gate — and still his stride and face told them nothing. “Hello,” he said. [20] Mama got up and followed him through the front door. The girls knew better than to go in too. Presently Mama’s head emerged. Her eyes were lamps turned on. “It’s all right,” she exclaimed. “He got it. It’s all over. Everything is all right.” The door slammed shut. Mama’s footsteps hurried away. “I think,” said Helen, rocking rapidly, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was 11. I’d like some of my friends to just casually see that we’re homeowners.” Footnotes: 1. French for “planter” 2. Obstinate (adjective) stubbornly refusing to change 3. Emphatic (adjective) attracting special attention 4. A type of quick-growing tree 5. An orange to orange-yellow 6. Short, quick, and separate 7. Vacant (adjective) not filled, used, or lived in Create a Google Document and write a new ending following these directions- Imagine how the story would be different if it were told from the point of view of the character, Papa. Your narrative should be written in first person point of view. Using the information from the passage, rewrite the ending of the story starting from when Papa walks home (Paragraph 17). Make sure that you provide dialogue from the characters (Papa, Mama, Maud Martha, or Helen), and use sensory details and language to capture the action of the story. Stay true to the author’s voice and style. You should have a minimum of 300 words. Be mindful of conventions, so that they do not interfere with meaning. -- can you help me with this?

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Certainly! Below is a rewritten ending of the story told from Papa's point of view.

I stepped off the bus, my shoes crunching against the gravel, and I felt a familiar knot in my stomach as I made my way home. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, dipping into the horizon, casting long shadows on the pavement. My little staccato walk carried me past the Kennedys’ house, the vacant lot where laughter used to echo, and Mrs. Blakemore’s porch. I wondered how my family was faring as I approached our gate—the gate that felt much more than just a boundary; it was a portal to our life, our memories.

As I opened it, the familiar creak greeted me, but today it whispered secrets that made me anxious. “I hope,” I thought, “that they’re not worrying too much.” I stepped into our yard, the lush grass a comforting reminder of every summer spent here. The poplar tree stood tall, its leaves whispering a sweet lullaby. I took a breath, noticing the smoke that curled from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent fern, hanging stubbornly beside the door.

“Hello,” I called out as I stepped onto the porch.

Mama turned quickly, her face lighting up like a lantern. I searched her eyes for answers. “Did you get it?” she asked, voice laced with a cautious hope that made my heart race.

I nodded, my relief flooding through me like the warm sunset glow. “Yes, I got it. We’re safe.”

A wave of silence turned into a tide of happiness as her face transformed; it was as if the worries of the day evaporated into the evening air. “It’s all right,” she exclaimed, her footsteps hurried away to share the news, and before I knew it, I was engulfed in the sounds of excitement from inside.

“Really?” I heard Maud Martha gasp, and I could envision her standing stock-still, her eyes wide, relief and disbelief dancing together. “We get to keep the house?”

Helen’s voice chimed in, a buoyant laugh escaping her lips, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was eleven. I want them to see that we’re homeowners!”

Their joy wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I smiled, watching them celebrate a moment that felt monumental, yet familiar like an old song. I couldn’t help but think about how small, transient worries would always linger, but for now, we had this—this home, these moments.

As I sank into the old chair on the porch, cooled by the evening breeze, I felt at peace. The familiar flow of love filled our home, and for today, that felt like enough.

This version echoes the original writing style, capturing Papa's perspective and maintaining the essence of the family's emotions while infusing sensory details and the dynamic of the characters.

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Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was an American poet, author, and teacher. In this short story, a family contemplates losing their house. Home by Gwendolyn Brooks [1] What had been wanted was this always, this always to last, the talking softly on this porch, with the snake plant in the jardinière(1) in the southwest corner, and the obstinate(2) slip from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent Michigan fern at the left side of the friendly door. Mama, Maud Martha, and Helen rocked slowly in their rocking chairs, and looked at the late afternoon light on the lawn and at the emphatic(3) iron of the fence and at the poplar tree(4). These things might soon be theirs no longer. Those shafts and pools of light, the tree, the graceful iron, might soon be viewed passively by different eyes. Papa was to have gone that noon, during his lunch hour, to the office of the Home Owners’ Loan. If he had not succeeded in getting another extension, they would be leaving this house in which they had lived for more than fourteen years. There was little hope. The Home Owners’ Loan was hard. They sat, making their plans. “We’ll be moving into a nice flat somewhere,” said Mama. “Somewhere on South Park, or Michigan, or in Washington Park Court.” Those flats, as the girls and Mama knew well, were burdens on wages twice the size of Papa’s. This was not mentioned now. “They’re much prettier than this old house,” said Helen. “I have friends I’d just as soon not bring here. And I have other friends that wouldn’t come down this far for anything, unless they were in a taxi.” [5] Yesterday, Maud Martha would have attacked her. Tomorrow she might. Today she said nothing. She merely gazed at a little hopping robin in the tree, her tree, and tried to keep the fronts of her eyes dry. “Well, I do know,” said Mama, turning her hands over and over, “that I’ve been getting tireder and tireder of doing that firing. From October to April, there’s firing to be done.” “But lately we’ve been helping, Harry and I,” said Maud Martha. “And sometimes in March and April and in October, and even in November, we could build a little fire in the fireplace. Sometimes the weather was just right for that.” She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry. But she felt that the little line of white, sometimes ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron(5) would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here. The birds on South Park were mechanical birds, no better than the poor caught canaries in those “rich” women’s sun parlors. [10] “It’s just going to kill Papa!” burst out Maud Martha. “He loves this house! He lives for this house!” He lives for us,” said Helen. “It’s us he loves. He wouldn’t want the house, except for us.” “And he’ll have us,” added Mama, “wherever.” “You know,” Helen sighed, “if you want to know the truth, this is a relief. If this hadn’t come up, we would have gone on, just dragged on, hanging out here forever.” “It might,” allowed Mama, “be an act of God. God may just have reached down and picked up the reins.” [15] “Yes,” Maud Martha cracked in, “that’s what you always say — that God knows best.” Her mother looked at her quickly, decided the statement was not suspect, looked away. Helen saw Papa coming. “There’s Papa,” said Helen. They could not tell a thing from the way Papa was walking. It was that same dear little staccato(6) walk, one shoulder down, then the other, then repeat, and repeat. They watched his progress. He passed the Kennedys’, he passed the vacant(7) lot, he passed Mrs. Blakemore’s. They wanted to hurl themselves over the fence, into the street, and shake the truth out of his collar. He opened his gate — the gate — and still his stride and face told them nothing. “Hello,” he said. [20] Mama got up and followed him through the front door. The girls knew better than to go in too. Presently Mama’s head emerged. Her eyes were lamps turned on. “It’s all right,” she exclaimed. “He got it. It’s all over. Everything is all right.” The door slammed shut. Mama’s footsteps hurried away. “I think,” said Helen, rocking rapidly, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was 11. I’d like some of my friends to just casually see that we’re homeowners.” Footnotes: 1. French for “planter” 2. Obstinate (adjective) stubbornly refusing to change 3. Emphatic (adjective) attracting special attention 4. A type of quick-growing tree 5. An orange to orange-yellow 6. Short, quick, and separate 7. Vacant (adjective) not filled, used, or lived in Create a Google Document and write a new ending following these directions- Imagine how the story would be different if it were told from the point of view of the character, Papa. Your narrative should be written in first person point of view. Using the information from the passage, rewrite the ending of the story starting from when Papa walks home (Paragraph 17). Make sure that you provide dialogue from the characters (Papa, Mama, Maud Martha, or Helen), and use sensory details and language to capture the action of the story. Stay true to the author’s voice and style. You should have a minimum of 300 words. Be mindful of conventions, so that they do not interfere with meaning. -- can you help me with this?

1 answer

Certainly! Below is a rewritten ending of the story told from Papa's point of view.

I stepped off the bus, my shoes crunching against the gravel, and I felt a familiar knot in my stomach as I made my way home. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, dipping into the horizon, casting long shadows on the pavement. My little staccato walk carried me past the Kennedys’ house, the vacant lot where laughter used to echo, and Mrs. Blakemore’s porch. I wondered how my family was faring as I approached our gate—the gate that felt much more than just a boundary; it was a portal to our life, our memories.

As I opened it, the familiar creak greeted me, but today it whispered secrets that made me anxious. “I hope,” I thought, “that they’re not worrying too much.” I stepped into our yard, the lush grass a comforting reminder of every summer spent here. The poplar tree stood tall, its leaves whispering a sweet lullaby. I took a breath, noticing the smoke that curled from Aunt Eppie’s magnificent fern, hanging stubbornly beside the door.

“Hello,” I called out as I stepped onto the porch.

Mama turned quickly, her face lighting up like a lantern. I searched her eyes for answers. “Did you get it?” she asked, voice laced with a cautious hope that made my heart race.

I nodded, my relief flooding through me like the warm sunset glow. “Yes, I got it. We’re safe.”

A wave of silence turned into a tide of happiness as her face transformed; it was as if the worries of the day evaporated into the evening air. “It’s all right,” she exclaimed, her footsteps hurried away to share the news, and before I knew it, I was engulfed in the sounds of excitement from inside.

“Really?” I heard Maud Martha gasp, and I could envision her standing stock-still, her eyes wide, relief and disbelief dancing together. “We get to keep the house?”

Helen’s voice chimed in, a buoyant laugh escaping her lips, “I think I’ll give a party. I haven’t given a party since I was eleven. I want them to see that we’re homeowners!”

Their joy wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I smiled, watching them celebrate a moment that felt monumental, yet familiar like an old song. I couldn’t help but think about how small, transient worries would always linger, but for now, we had this—this home, these moments.

As I sank into the old chair on the porch, cooled by the evening breeze, I felt at peace. The familiar flow of love filled our home, and for today, that felt like enough.

This version echoes the original writing style, capturing Papa's perspective and maintaining the essence of the family's emotions while infusing sensory details and the dynamic of the characters.

GPT-4o mini · Answer