For the record, I did not write this in my free time. It was an assignment for my English class, and I decided to share it with you guys. It was supposed to be 500 words or more , but I kinda went overboard and my nerdy self "decided to take it to the next step." (That was a Joey Tribbiani-Friends reference, by the way. Get it? No? ok.) Anywho, hope you enjoy it! :)
Narrative Essay Driving up through pastoral countryside, I could already smell summer. Freshly baled hay, front lawns being cut, the faint smell of manure, the slight sweet trace of growing corn, fresh rain. I leaned back in my seat and stuck my hand out the car window to feel the humid air. As we drove up the hill to the house, I looked out down the narrow rows of corn growing in rolling fields. We passed by them so fast, they created a sort of illusion that was so mesmerizing, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. I was so glad to to be here; the smell made me giddy with excitement. Maybe jet lag made me sentimental or idealistic or something, but all I could think about was how many fun times I’ve had here in the summer. How many fun things I had in store. In the summertime, I’ve always gone to my grandmother’s house in northeast Ohio. Sometimes it’s just me and my dad, sometimes it’s my whole family. This is how it’s always been, and hopefully will continue to be for some time. Not a real exciting place, and definitely not a bucket list destination. Nothing like the glamorous Marin area in California, where my other grandmother lives and where we also visit. Looking back though, I know I would not be the person I am today if it weren’t for these annual 3-6 week visits. My grandma, or Gran, lives in a small, ranch-style house painted red with white trim. The house looks out to two large hedges that make a sort of aisle leading out towards the lake. As you walk through the open area towards the lake, to the right there are tall trees of all different kinds blocking out the road and everything else. In front of the lake stands a magnificent weeping willow, the first thing you see when you look out in front of you. Its long, sweeping leaves brush the surface of the glassy water, causing ripples when the wind blows the branches. Two more guard the sides, not nearly as big but still impressive. Underneath the largest one is the small dock, where we used to launch the old paddle boat that still rests under the tree. We never swam in the lake. Gran said there were snapping turtles, and that they would bite us if we ever dared to go swimming. To this day, none of us has ever actually seen a snapping turtle, but we just somehow know they’re there. Plus, the lake is full of lily pads and algae, so it’s not really fit for swimming. To the left of the lake, there is an apple orchard, overflowing with perfectly round, bright green apples.There is also a mulberry tree. Behind it is a small building that Gran affectionately calls the “she-shed.” It’s a studio-like place that has a daybed and desk that looks out towards the lake. Sometimes I spend the night out there, dropping off to sleep to the sound of frogs and crickets, and the blinking lights of fireflies shining all the way out to the lake. When we finally pulled into the gravel driveway, my dog hopped up onto my lap and leaned out the window. This is one of her favorite places, so much space for her to run around and “hunt.” We parked the car and she took off, heading towards the front steps which she nimbly climbed like she’d lived there forever. I grabbed my suitcase and walked inside, ecstatic to hear the perpetual singing of the cicadas. The shrill sound is literally constant, and takes some getting used to if you haven’t heard it before. I took a shower, changed into my shorts, and went down to the basement to get my bike. As I lugged it up the stairs, I looked at it affectionately. It’s a really old, vintage bike, with the red paint chipping off and the handles worn from constant use. I got it at a flea market, and you would never know how well it works by looking at it. Seeing it again was like getting out holiday decorations at Christmastime; knowing something so well, but not getting to see it very often. I put some air in the tires, and wheeled it out to the beautiful country road. Riding down the familiar route that I know so well, I looked at all the little things that I used to notice. The black pavement in front of me that has been heated by the sun so much that it’s soft enough to put fingerprints in, the telephone lines with blackbirds perched on them, old fashioned houses that I knew so well but had never been inside, cows looking out at me like, her again. I got home just before dusk, and, still really jet lagged, turned on the TV. The Indians baseball game was starting, and I felt another jolt of excitement. I could never watch my favorite team at in Alaska, the channel isn’t available. Baseball games are always a big part of my summers, and I make it a point to watch almost every game. My father introduced me to baseball when I was really little, and I’ve gotten to be more and more of a fan as I’ve gotten older. I have some of the best memories going to Indians games with my dad; driving the 80 miles to Cleveland, waiting in line for autographs from players, stopping to get milkshakes and fries on the way back, driving through the humid night air with the classic rock radio station going. I always record the game on TV and then watch it on the screen from home. It’s such a great connection that my dad and I have, and is an attribute that has rubbed off on me and will stay with me forever. It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night. Finally, I got up and opened up the window, and took a deep breath of the warm, damp air. Tomorrow we would probably go to town to go to the store and library, and maybe go see friends later in the day. Considering my internal clock was already really messed up, I really needed to try and get some sleep. I took one last glance out at the moonlit trees, and slid back into the silk covers; pulling the blankets over my bare arms and slowly drifting off, dreaming of fireflies flashing ceaselessly in the cornfields.
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Victoria Adams is an Alaskan teen who loves photography, airports, baseball, books, ferry rides, anything aesthetically pleasing, and strong coffee. She impulsively wanted to start a blog to post pictures of her travels and write about them in article format. Her pictures on this blog are taken on an iPhone 6s.
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