The phrase under god in the pledge of allegiance

A simple way to check the organization of an essay is to outline it once you have a draft. Does the outline represent the organizational pattern — chronological, spatial, or logical — that you set out to use? Problems in outlining will naturally indicate sections that you need to revise.

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A View from the Bridge

Cherokee Paul McDonald

A fiction writer, memoirist, and journalist, Cherokee Paul McDonald was raised and schooled in Fort Lauderdale,

Florida. In 1970, he returned home from a tour of duty in Vietnam and joined the Fort Lauderdale Police Department,

where he rose to the rank of sergeant. In 1980, after receiving a degree in criminal science from Broward Community

College, McDonald left the police department to become a writer. He worked a number of odd jobs before publishing his

first book, The Patch, in 1986. In 1991, he published Blue Truth, a memoir. His novel Summer’s Reason was released in

1994, and his memoir of the Vietnam War titled Into the Green: A Reconnaissance by Fire, was published in 2001.

“A View from the Bridge” was originally published in Sunshine magazine in 1990. As you read, notice how McDonald

organizes his narrative. He tells us what the narrator and the boy are doing, but he also relies heavily on their dialogue to

structure his story, which unfolds as the two talk. McDonald makes the story come alive by showing us, rather than by

simply telling us, what happens.

Reflecting on What You Know

Make a list of your interests, focusing on those to which you devote a significant amount of time. Do you share any of

these interests with people you know? What does a shared interest do for a relationship between two people?

I was coming up on the little bridge in the Rio Vista neighborhood of Fort Lauderdale, deepening my stride and my breathing to negotiate the slight incline without altering my pace. And then, as I neared the crest, I saw the kid.

He was a lumpy little guy with baggy shorts, a faded T-shirt and heavy sweat socks falling down over old sneakers.

Partially covering his shaggy blond hair was one of those blue baseball caps with gold braid on the bill and a sailfish patch sewn onto the peak. Covering his eyes and part of his face was a pair of those stupid-looking ’50s-style wrap-around sunglasses.

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He was fumbling with a beat-up rod and reel, and he had a little bait bucket by his feet. I puffed on by, glancing down into the empty bucket as I passed.

“Hey, mister! Would you help me, please?”

The shrill voice penetrated my jogger’s concentration, and I was determined to ignore it. But for some reason, I stopped.

With my hands on my hips and the sweat dripping from my nose I asked, “What do you want, kid?”

“Would you please help me find my shrimp? It’s my last one and I’ve been getting bites and I know I can catch a fish if I can just find that shrimp. He jumped outta my hand as I was getting him from the bucket.”

Exasperated, I walked slowly back to the kid, and pointed.

“There’s the damn shrimp by your left foot. You stopped me for that?”

As I said it, the kid reached down and trapped the shrimp.

“Thanks a lot, mister,” he said.

I watched as the kid dropped the baited hook down into the canal. Then I turned to start back down the bridge.

That’s when the kid let out a “Hey! Hey!” and the prettiest tarpon1 I’d ever seen came almost six feet out of the water, twisting and turning as he fell through the air.

“I got one!” the kid yelled as the fish hit the water with a loud splash and took off down the canal.

I watched the line being burned off the reel at an alarming rate. The kid’s left hand held the crank while the extended fingers felt for the drag setting.

“No, kid!” I shouted. “Leave the drag alone . . . just keep that damn rod tip up!”

Then I glanced at the reel and saw there were just a few loops of line left on the spool.

“Why don’t you get yourself some decent equipment?” I said, but before the kid could answer I saw the line go slack.