My Dear Ell The Beginning Is Based On A True Story

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My Dear, Ella The beginning is based on a true story. (http://www.radiolab.org/story/91518-goat-on-a-cow/) 02, April, 1941 Well, mom, I hope you don’t mind me calling you this.... “H-holy...did you notice that?” “What…?” Eleanor shouts. “You-you-you-you must look at that! There was a-a-” I craned my head towards where Eleanor pointed, but I couldn’t catch a glimpse of what made her so excited. I turned my head back to watch the road carefully, annoyed by her sudden outburst. She continued to stutter, overwhelmed with astonishment, “P-P-Peter, we should turn around!” While shaking my arm, Eleanor shifted until her entire body was supported by her foot, and extended her entire left arm towards the back. “There is...” she lets out a burst…show more content…
My husband has written much about how much of an inspiration you are to him and his fellow troops…” Moving closer to Eleanor, I read the letter over her shoulder. 13th, March, 1941 Even though the letter was from the 1940s, and there were many documentations of that time, my mind was filled with awe of the historical relevance these letters could hold. These letters could be a gateway to tens or hundreds of minds of women and men who have personal experience with World War II. These letters were an entryway into the lives of those who had gone through years and years of strife, of conflict. These letters give insight into the lost shadows of people from the past, letting us forever memorialize and treasure their memories. I shout, completely disregarding the goat, who lurches with fright, and flees into the thin trees in the distance. “We must gather these notes!” Eleanor looks up with wide eyes, and nods jerkily in response. Stooping along the sides of the road, we maniacally collect tens, and later hundreds of letters filled with personal accounts of the past, which framed at least a small part of this world to what it finally evolved into. We are so lucky. Afterwards, a run back to my car, and grabbing a plastic bag which I fill my letters, I feel alive. “1912! 1937! 1897!” Eleanor screams out ecstatically. As time drags from minutes to hours, Eleanor and I comb along the side of the road until we can find no more letters. However, I am mournful, knowing that

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