A Day With Chemical Compounds

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner, “Joe,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds upset.” As I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie.

A chemical reaction is when substances (reactants) change into other substances (products). The five general types of chemical reactions are synthesis (also known as direct combination), decomposition, single replacement (also known as single displacement), double replacement (also known as double displacement), and combustion. In this lab, the five general types of chemical reactions were conducted and observations were taken before, during, and after the reaction. Then the reactants and observations were used to determine the products to form a balanced chemical equation. The purpose of this lab was to learn and answer the question: How can observations be used to determine the identity of substances produced in a chemical reaction?

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “John,” my father hollered up the stairs, “It’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds distressed.” As I came down the stairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie.

Enchanted by her serene radiance, I did not disturb her. Suddenly she began to speak in a whispered hum that was more like a song, unique in a dwelling full of ranting outbursts. She spoke of years long past, swimming in the pond with her sister and dancing in the moonlight. I could picture all in my head, like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me, and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first, I soon realized that, although the woman was talking to herself, she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home I knew that one of my goals in life would always be o help make sure that people were receiving proper treatment, and not merely stuffed away and drugged up.

It all began with a phone call one night after dinner. “Joe,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds upset.”As long as I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie. Thirty minutes later, however, Jackie’s silver Mustang convertible swung into our driveway, and Jackie was leaning on the horn before the car came to a full stop. Grabbing my coat from the couch, I walked out my front door with all the enthusiasm of a man going to stand before a firing squad.

Lansing’s house a year earlier. They used to live in a beige house with burgundy trimming, on the left-hand corner of Elm and Garfield. There was somber news that occurred in October of 2013, we found out that he has Lung Cancer but it was on the edge of stage one and going into stage two. Mr. Larson was the almost like uncle to me and always has been kind enough to invite my brother and me over to allow us to play video games, play cards and he did not mind watching us for a few hours until my mother finished fixing dinner. My parents considered him as a very close family friend. Whenever Julia came over for a visit during that time, she would sit down gracefully into the wooden chair before us, while chatting with us over a cup of hot chocolate. She explains that Carter, her husband, would frequently bellow over throwing up constantly and sometimes it would be tinged with blood and then pass out for a couple hours, “I ask his to take his medicine but he will not do it and say he does not need the medicine.” She says in her very concerned tone but her body language read differently, her facial expression and her eye read that she is calm and as if she really has nothing to worry about. Wow, this woman does not even care about her husband, what gives? Julia kept the same story going that he refuses to take his medicine and all, as a result that his cancer has reached stage four by April 2014 and he looks so grim, gravely and very lethargic. His face has sunken in, you can nearly see his bones and he looks like Skeletor from He-Man and he could barely move without assistance and his walker. A couple weeks before he passed away, Julia took him with her to North Carolina, visit another man’s family. The man I speak of is called Eugene, and he just lives off of other women’s money, he cannot keep a job or care to have one. What I heard from other visitors of her house is that while

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Josh,” my grandfather yelled up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds angry.” As I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another pointless police chase leading to me and Jackie being outran by some goons.

Silence. It was too quiet for a Manhattan neighborhood. My eyes slowly opened, welcoming sunlight in, as I looked around my room, I strained my ears to catch for any sounds. I decided to get up and figure out why our usually bustling neighborhood went from noisy to quiet. Walking down the stairs, I was welcomed to a totally destroyed living area, all my furniture against the door, all my windows boarded up with multiple nails pierced into the board. Creeping towards my kitchen, all my belonging looked as though it had not been touched. Opening the oak cabinets, I noticed all my food was in place, including my box of chocolate granola bars, with four left. Grabbing one, I leaned against the counter, my eyes glancing towards the daily newspaper crumpled on the floor. Bending down

Each disruption I was unable to ignore, resulting in my leapfrogging from spot to spot. Whether it was a party with hamburgers, people doing Slackline, or people cuddling and kissing, I would leave. Fed up with the consistent commotion around me, I left, Searching for a sense of serenity, I sprinted back to my house, eager to escape the turmoil infecting my leisure hour. As I opened the familiar wooden door, I heard a door slam and expletives flowing out of my brothers mouth. I thought that I had finally found the calmness I had been seeking. I was wrong. I went back outside, sat on the worn out and sun bleached bench on my patio and

When we headed up to her room to prepare for bed, the night hit rock bottom. It started with her ranting about how mad and upset she was with me, but the second I tried to explain that I’d done nothing, and didn’t deserve her comments all night long, it escalated quickly. Her shrieks projected off the ceiling, echoing throughout the room; I swear the whole block could hear her. Suddenly, the heat of the atmosphere rose: tension. My heart raced. My body paralyzed.

I jumped through the kitchen door with the intent of regaling my family with a tale of the firetrucks and ambulances which raced by me during the bike ride in pursuit of their own mångata, but the thought elapsed as trivially and quickly as the vehicles had passed me on the road. Instead, I waved at Mom and Dad watching TV in the living room and headed upstairs to the rhythm of the sirens stuck in my ears. I've always abided by the theory that my bedroom should be a zone solely of relaxation, so I was a little startled to hear the phone binging: “Jake Robertson just died in a car accident,” the screen told me. I pulled up the covers, and my head hit the pillow before the truth hit my

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Joe”’ my father hollered up the stairs, “Its for you. Its Jackie, and she sounds upset.” As I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie.

The young student bangs around the kitchen in search of the month old box of Froot Loops he’s stretching out for all its worth. His hands furiously open the stark white linoleum cabinet to the left of the stove and rummages in it for a minute before finding the cardboard box. He sets it down on the cold slippery countertop before shuffling sleepily to the fridge. The cold air that blasts in his face is a sharp contrast from the muggy temperature of his studio apartment thanks to his broken air conditioning. Shaky hands grab the carton of milk and close the fridge door. He bangs around the kitchen once more to find a lone bowl and a spoon in a cabinet because all the other ones are sitting in the sink begging for someone to wash them. The creaking

That day seemed good. Mom and dad went out, I fell asleep. What went wrong? The feeling of people watching your house. Seeing something’s not right. My mom, running, jumped to the nearest room. Dogs panicking at 3:00 in the morning. Millions of cops, surrounding my house. Me, analyzing all the jackets that had four letters on them. SWAT.

As a little girl, I was forced to grow up way before my time. I never had the ability to forgive and let go. I was suffocated with the memories of my past. Mrs. Westby, my English Teacher, could tell that my writings only scratched the surface. She asked me to stay after class the day she announced our writing prompt. I did as she requested. Later that day, she sat me down and asked me several questions. I answered most surface level, afraid to let anyone see that I was broken.