My First Memories Of A Small Town In My Life

distinct memories I had of this place. My family had been moving around Florida for the past three years of my life. Three years, three cities, and four different schools. This time we were moving to Ohio; my family was very excited about the move they said they were so happy to finally be home, but I had little to no memory of this place being my home. Nine years later, my family and I are still living in a small town in Northwest Ohio. I’m getting prepared for the next chapter in my life. With graduation

Growing up in small town makes trying to figure out you’re purpose in life in my opinion, a little harder. It makes it very difficult to break away from the small town roots that you grew up knowing. I grew up in a small town named Helenwood, Tennessee, to me, the greatest place on earth. Others would definitely disagree with me and I’m well aware of that, but I consider this place like a Garden of Eden. Helenwood is a tiny town on the outskirts of East Tennessee. Here, everyone knows just about

Mexico isn’t where I’m from, but I can’t help but be remembered of what my life used to be when I did live in Mexico. My earliest memory was of me, I don’t know what age but I was still pretty young maybe 1 or 2 years old, in my crib. I recall looking up at the ceiling and then seeing the kid faces of my two older brothers. I guess when I was a baby I liked to make a really weird noise, and that’s what I was doing in this memory. My oldest brother smiled and made the same noise, I found this to be funny

There’s just something about growing up in a small town that makes life better. I’m able to know everyone in my community. I’m able to go back road driving and just have fun with my friends. Juxtaposed to living in the cities where it’s not as safe, I know that I’ll always be safe in my little town. In the moment of being around a bonfire and listening to music with friends and just talking about life, I’m so happy. That’s where I want to be. There’s no place I rather be. I’m able to be free and

not there, was something that I answered 6 years ago. In order to answer that question a series of childhood memories have to start fade in my mind. My life is separated into two geographic locations. The first 16 years of my life traced back to a small town located on the outside mountains of Guatemala City. I grew up in a third world country and throughout my life saw the struggles of my family and community members. Guatemala is a country of many contrasts,is located in the heart of America, is

defines a hometown as, “the city or town where you were born or grew up,” but to me a hometown is the place where you have the greatest memories. For this reason, I am unable to claim just one place as my hometown. The two places that immediately come to mind when I think of my hometown are Davenport, Washington and Rathdrum, Idaho. When I was born my father, mother, and I lived in Post Falls, Idaho, but before I was old enough to make memories while living here, my parents divorced and I moved to

I was born and raised in the small town, Fayetteville located in North Carolina. The town was beautiful. It was surrounded by thousands of trees and flowers. In the middle of the town, there was a strip, with a Bojangles, Wal-Mart, and The Waffle House. Why did my parents choose to live in such a small town? Because we were in the Army. The earliest memory I have, is of me running through our small two bedroom house, in a pink and purple track suit. At the time we lived on an Army Base right outside

devised the first hydraulically controlled accessory implements for farm tractors and sold the patents to Ford Motor Co., the village drunk and an old widow living out her life on welfare. My memory of her is vivid. Her home was a barely upgraded chicken coop with a dirt floor, but she was safe from the indignities of institutional living. I can still recall the clay dirt floor, polished smooth by years of footsteps, and the smell of the smoky wood fire as I delivered her groceries. My father would

I grew up on the mid north coast of NSW in a small town called Valla Beach which was nestled between the bush and the beach. Because it was such a small town in which most people knew each other, I was granted relative freedom to roam the native environment and explore. I have very fond memories of riding my scooter up and down the streets with my friends and neighbours, cantering through the bush in front of my house, making up stories about my life if I had lived there and spending all day on the

Living in a community where everyone knows you is what I call “a blessing in disguise”. Some people may see my community as a tundra wasteland, but I see it as a unique place full of rich culture and nature. Utqiagvik, formerly known as Barrow, is one of many towns in Alaska that still makes important the Native language and the Inupiat culture keeps the spirit in this town alive. There are not a lot people that admire Utqiagvik in the same ways I do. But what they do not realize is that Utqiagvik