True Loves

The characters Heathcliff and Catherine in the novel Wuthering Heights are definitely not true loves in my opinion. Mostly it is an idea developed in their heads that derived from lust. Their love is not romantic but passionate. Cathy and Heathcliff are faced in a situation where they are the only two male/female teenagers(excluding Hindley who is blood related) growing up at the Heights. Obviously, only having each other, their hormones are brought in the situation and blow up the "soul mate" factor into proportion.

Ghost Chapter

It was the morning that Papa was leaving for his journey to Liverpool and Cathy and I were sitting down at the monstrous, bulky wooden table that had been passed down from many generations of the Earnshaw’s. While eating our milky warm porridge Papa sat down and asked me what I would like as a gift, but it had to be light for he was traveling sixty miles each way to Liverpool. I chose a fiddle and Cathy, a whip. Papa set out for his extensive trip and have us both warm kisses before he left. The night was grew old as Cathy and I waited for Papa, and we became more worried as the night became darker. After running to the gate one to many times, Nelly told us to go to our rooms but we pleaded her to let us say. Around eleven, Papa arrived home and sat down in the living room on his brown wooden chair. Out from underneath him was a little boy with dark hair and dark skin. Mama called him a gypsy and asked Papa why in God’s name he would bring another child into our house. She was right, we had barely enough food and clothes for the four of us, how would we raise another child? Just when I was about to ask for my fiddle, I saw Papa reaching into his coat pocket. “I’m sorry my boy,” he proclaimed as he took out the broken musical instrument that I had longed for. I now detested this boy; why should any other child, besides Cathy, have my father’s attention over me? Nelly was told to bathe, clothe, and feed him before putting him to sleep in our rooms, but Cathy and I would not allow it. After fighting urgently, Nelly placed him in the stairway were he stayed until he found the audacity to go into my parents’ bed chamber. This Heathcliff, our whatever Papa decided to call him, was not going to fit in here well at the Heights, and I would make sure of it.

Déjà vu?

The first and second half of Wuthering Heights start to resemble each other when Catherine meets Hareton in the moors. She, like her mother, grew up at the Grange and is clean and polite. While on the other hand, Hareton is dirty and uneducated like Heathcliff from the Heights. The two characters, although with very different morals, start to grow fond of each other like Heathcliff and Catherine once before.

The Mystery of the Fortune..

My theory on how Heathcliff made his fortune would have to be that he found out who his birth parents were. When Heathcliff ran away for a few years I believe that he chased after his birth parents because he wanted to try and find the people that truly loved him. When searching, he found out that he was abandoned twelve years ago because his parents had never returned from their trip to Ireland. His uncle explained to Heathcliff that he came to Liverpool to try and find him but he was gone. Heathcliff's parents' boat was never found along the coasts of England or Ireland but they had left all of their money for him. For a couple years Heathcliff lived at his parents' old house in Liverpool and discovered more about his childhood. He then decided to return to Wuthering Heights with his money and revisit Cathy.

Wuthering Heights vs. Thrushcross Grange

If I had to choose whether to live in Wuthering Heights or Thrushcross Grange, I would choose Wuthering Heights. Wuthering Heights has more a more free feel to it than the Grange. If I lived at the Grange I'd feel like I were stuck in a shell, something that I did not want to be. Edgar and Isabella were raised to be proper and elegant but Heathcliff and Catherine were more free spirited and loose. Also, Catherine has a friendly relationship with Nelly Dean which was not like the Linton's has with their servants. On the other hand, I can see why Catherine is torn between the two houses. On on side, she can be herself and rowdy and outgoing with Heathcliff but on the other she has to be ladylike and act refined at Thrushcross Grange. Sometimes girls think it's fun to dress up and act sophisticated but they also love, and most prefer to be themselves and act silly.

The Day He Said Goodbye

The morning of July 8th, 2008 was no different than any summer morning. I woke up, brushed my teeth, put on a pair of shorts, my deep blue Montvale Rec shirt, and grabbed my shiny black whistle. It was the second week of being a camp counselor and everything was going smoothly. “Common’ lets go,” Mom shouted as she jingled her metallic car keys that hung from her Niagara Falls keychain. Confused and startled, I grabbed my beat up backpack and bolted to the car. I knew something was wrong when I saw my mother’s worn out face. The soft creases in her eyes made it obvious that she had been crying. “What’s wrong mom?” I asked as we passed the local bagel shop and she carelessly forgot about my breakfast. With tears locked in her deep blue eyes, she explained to me that my grandfather had been really sick that morning and was taken to the ICU. All of a sudden, my mind went blank, wait what do you mean? “Wow” was all my mouth could say, but inside I felt so much more. My usually normal, red, pumping heart now grew so big that I felt it touch the top of my throat. It was like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. “Do I have to go to work today?” I whined like a baby pleading for ice cream. “Yes, you should. It will help keep your mind off of things,” Mom said as she blew me a kiss. I headed onto the school’s basketball courts, where the camp met in the morning to welcome my early bird campers. With a fake, wide smile on my face, I told them all good morning and swatted their hands with a swift high five.

The sun shined hard, blazing over our heads; it was probably one of the longest days of camp. Nothing could make me stop thinking about the horrific news that was brought to my attention this morning. Right before Sam, the other counselor, and I took the girls to play volleyball I sped to the school’s bathroom. The heavy ancient door opened with a loud creak and I peered inside. The never ending sink dripped the same way it dripped when I attended school here six years ago. In the mirror I carefully examined every curve of my face. I have his nose, I thought and silently began to weep. Part of me wanted to believe there was hope that he would survive, but he was an eighty-nine year old man, who could no longer walk and almost never spoke. My tears gently rolled off my face onto my foot-bearing flip flops and brought me back into the real world. I opened the sink, and ran my fingers under the icy cold water. Splash! My face was instantly cooled off and soaking wet, maybe no one would notice the cherry red spots on my face along with my raw brown eyes exhausted from crying.

Outside the bathroom, the hall was as quiet as silent reading days in English class. With no hurry I walked around enjoying the beautiful works of art done by 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th graders. It reminded me of when I was so innocent and fragile; a time where I could not comprehend that someone was dying. When a group of boys and their counselors approached me, I quickly became conscious of my own girls who were waiting to play volleyball. Out back on the field, the girls were already divided in their teams (a.k.a. their “cliques”) waiting for me to join in. Sam was on the farther side with a bright white volleyball ready to serve. The thrilling game unfortunately only lasted seven minutes before someone got hurt. With only twenty minutes of camp left, Sam and I led the girls to the nurse’s office. As I walked inside, I felt the goose bumps rise up on my tan, bare arms and questioned if Sara had faked her aching knee just so all of us could enjoy the pleasurable air conditioning.

Although the camp day was officially over, it was only twelve in the afternoon. My brother picked me up that day with a very solemn face almost as if he were hiding something. Inside, the happy sounds of Billy Joel and The Dave Matthews Band that usually echoed through his car were no longer playing. “Grandpa had a heart attack and he is not looking good,” Joao told me, not taking his fierce glare off the road. I stayed quiet and swallowed the lump of sadness that had been forcefully lodged in my throat since this morning.

At home, my mother was pacing around with the phone in one hand and packing her large suitcase with her spare hand. I sat down on the couch, watching her do the best she could even though there really wasn’t anything we could do to. All of us felt helpless because Grandpa and Grandma lived in Brazil and all we could do was wait; wait for news that would change our lives. All of a sudden my mom came downstairs no longer trying to restrain her tears. Not one word left her shaking mouth and we knew what had tragically happened. I hugged her like I’ve never hugged anyone before; after all I’ve never lost anyone so close to me before. “Grandpa had another heart attack, he just couldn’t handle it Nanda,” I cried and cried and cried so much not even one of those uplifting shopping trips could fix the emptiness I was feeling. When I looked over to Joao, my big brother, my role model, I saw him crying. For the first time in my fourteen years of life had I seen my brother cry. In a way it was weird, but then again so gentle and surprising. At that moment I realized that not only was my brother this big, tough, strong protector of mine, but he held feelings inside of him as well. We sat down and cried together and ever since then I have felt that this was a bonding moment we shared.

While Mom called Dad, my duty was to call Maria, my sister. She had already been informed of the same news that I was exposed to this morning. I hesitated calling her because I did not know how the heck I was supposed to break this awful news to my sister. Fortunately as soon as she heard my whimpered cry and my loud hiccups she knew what had happened. “No! No!” Maria proclaimed as she started to bawl. I told her I had to go help Mom, but that I also loved her and she could call me back whenever. Hearing my older brother and sister cry was too much for me, I went up into my room, my refuge to hide from the harsh world. Never had I cried so hard as I did on that day. My eyes were an ocean of sadness and the waves were the salty tears rushing down my face.

Losing someone for the first time was an extremely hard experience for me, as I know it must be for everyone else. Growing up, I always figured that I was a lucky child. I have a mom, a dad, a sister, and a brother, what more could I ask for? The love and care from my family has surrounded me since I was a small girl to a blossoming young woman and it has made me who I am today. Ever since my grandfather’s death I have learned to look at life in a new way and so has my family. We were always conscious, but this unfortunate event had made us even more aware of how important family is. Now having a year to reflect on this experience I look back on it as growth and understanding. Not only during the course of my life will I lose more people whom I truly love and care about, but I will also help and sympathize with those who are faced with the same situation as me.