Our Retreat Brought Renewal and Hope for Better Days Ahead Essay

It was a dry summer afternoon before the arrival of fall, and the beginning of a new school year in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. That afternoon few of my friends from Chicago named Marshall, Kevin, Connor and I had been planning to head over to Marshall’s house after school. As the bell sounded at 2:20pm we ran quickly to our lockers, and made it to the buses. All four of us met at Marshall’s house which was tucked in behind the forest preserve along a private road off Quentin road. The conditions were just right for riding around on our dirt bikes and go-karts although at the time 85 degrees was quite warm to us Chicagoans at the end September.

To commence, I swiftly tossed the last layout blind into the Chevy pickup and yelled, “Lets hit the road!” My dad hurdled into the truck and I pressed the accelerator, aiming west toward Hazen, North Dakota. Arriving seven hours later, I darted from truck and inhaled the fumes of a freshly cut wheat field on the horizon. I began to gawk at the beautiful landscape the “peace

I was upstairs in this bamboo dorm that was on top of a steep hill next to another village of refugees separated by a long wood fence. Downstairs was a large room with wooden benches and tables. I could hear my mother teaching a class full of high school students who were reciting some verses from a textbook. I killed time by daydreaming, drawing, and playing with a rhinoceros beetle. After a few hours, I could hear the students’ footsteps hitting the dirt floor; they’re going back to their dorms, I thought.

We arrived at our destination… so I took my headphones out, and I put my iPhone away. I stepped off of the bus to see a large brick school building with some bricks missing and multiple cracked windows illuminated by light bulbs glowing brightly in classrooms full of innocent children. I began walking to the entrance of the school, trying to avoid the large cracks in the sidewalk that were filled with ice on this bitter December day. Snow was falling and the bitter cold and my new surroundings were shaking me to the core.

The indication of morning had approached; wind halted while the air became temperate. Morning routine of the birds, fetching food for their children, communicating with the others, hatching their eggs. Newly seeded grass shooted out, growing like weeds. The air reminded Mary of a camping trip when she was younger in Yosemite Park. Pinecones and trees gave her the happy memories, ones of her husband and her only child before the accident.

The forecast called for more rain on the most awaited and thrilling day of their lives. Desoto High School graduating seniors were spackled with mixed emotions ranging from excitement, to rage. After receiving the news that Desoto High School’s district administrators failed to plan for a rainy day venue that could accommodate a stadium view crowd of elated parents, friends, and loved ones; graduating seniors ran around like chickens with their heads cut off-squawking and fumbling about. What were more than 600 graduating seniors to do? Where were they to go to complain about this incredible fiasco? The purpose of this essay is to re-tell of a short descriptive thrilling event in third person.

Starting off with a picture of how days were when she experienced her fifth-grade summer, the author adds in details that seem so minuscule, and unimportant to set the setting. The information about the cost of riding a trolley and the ice truck driving around on a hot day with blocks of ice provides the readers with the background of her story. In addition, by using diction that the author used as a child, such as “that-old-thing” and “help-him-out,” she brings the story to life as if it were still the 1900s. Every tiny detail that the author remembers about her childhood shown in this passage proves to the readers how important her fifth-grade summer was to her.

By the time lunch came, we all hiked back to my car to eat the lunches that I packed for everyone. As everyone joked around, I sat back and looked at the scene before me. I realized how fortunate I was to be playing hockey on this beautiful day, with the perfect temperature and the sun being out. After the quick lunch, we all raced back through the crisp air, yelling and cheering. As the sun started setting people started clearing off the ice. Time went on, and the cluster of people around the warm and bright fire increased. Around one of the fires all of my friends and I sat and told stories of the summer. I glanced at the shadows bouncing off of the snow, and then to the clear sky that held thousands of bright stars. During the walk back to my car I could faintly hear the unique sounds of the wolves music bouncing through the air, and smiled. As I got home I thought about the events of the day and knew that I made many memories that I would tell for years to come. I drifted into sleep thinking about the next year and all of the new stories to

Growing up in the dangerous rugged projects was rough as a child. A neighborhood you would want your children growing up in. Every morning as the bright yellow sun settled on “Jamestown” the apartment complex we lived in. We knew that is was another glorious day filled with something new and maybe dangerous. Around every beat down apartment building you could find an anxious group of teens playing an intense game of dice, smoking some strong marijuana that smelled like a skunk, and even drunk older guys hitting on the younger girls in the neighborhood. The strong, but yet, poor-hardworking families had to work many jobs just support a household of three. Nobody had the luxury of driving a brand new car, nor a cheap used car. In fact, not many

We pulled up to the destination and I heard the sound of people’s footsteps as we exited the bus and took a glance around, trying to absorb my surroundings. This was our 3rd day in Detroit, and up until today, my sights have been of fancy hotels, huge stadiums, crowded streets, and skyscrapers escalating high in the sky. This place looked a lot more at home with the vibrant green grass in the yards, a family hanging

My shorts and tee shirt did little to protect me from the chilly air of March.   It seemed as though winter did not want to change into spring quite yet. Allison and I patiently waited in the never ending line for the log ride at Silver Dollar City.  We had traveled a couple hours from Edmond, Oklahoma to Branson, Missouri for Spring Break. The log ride was something I talked Allison into doing, the possibility of rafting through the waters too enticing.  As we slowly made our way to the beginning of the line, the ride instructor helped us into the log ride not before chastising the children before us not rock the ride. Slowly the log ride gained momentum down the watery track, after winds and turns we were nearing the top of the ride.

Evie hopped off the bus with a renewed sense of purpose. “I came here to succeed. Not to worry about home,” she thought to herself. She was feeling driven and ready to begin anew here, in a foreign land with foreign people, people who don’t know her or her legacy. She looked around at the lively street scene before her. The signs were vibrant and their brilliance drew her closer and closer to the center of town. The entire city seemed to be moving towards her, and an endless sea of men and women spewed out of the buildings and down the block. The congested streets keep her pace slow, but her mind was racing with new thoughts and ideas. The gridlocked traffic finally allowed for some leeway, and Evie found her way out of the fray and across

Even when the sky cried, the town was perfect. The weekly manicured grass welcomed the unexpected warm summer rain. Rainbows of chalk drawings washed away in dark pools, and even with whole world seemingly turning dark, the perfect white trim on the houses shown, and the old gas street lights illuminated the pristine street. In the beige house, behind the white picket fence and the red door gathered a group of APT moms in the kitchen, hosting weekly book club. My sad reflection in the window stared back at me, visible to no one. I laughed quietly to myself when I saw the very familiar group. Making small talk at the head of the table was Mrs. Jackson, I had gone to school with her son forever. Funny, I didn’t see her at the funeral. Chipping away at her manicure was Mrs. Webster, our conservative Girl Scout leader whose daughter Lillian never liked me much. It was a quite diverse group, some sporting intricate hairdos thick with hairspray and pins, sipping their soy lattes perfectly poised, conversing only slightly

Rain poured on me as I walked home. I was all soaked and as usual, I was alone. It was close to night, and I lived in Del Mar. The other kids walked on the other side of the sidewalk gossiping and insulting me under their breaths, but I tried to not let the voices get to my head. I just kept treading forward. I got to the streetlights and made my across the street to go hike up the hill that leads to my house. My tucked my hands in my jacket pockets and positioned my head down to the dark, paved, and quiet street.

The school bus smell of musty of old leather seats and rubber floor mats drifted through my nostrils. The unrelenting hyenas on the bus didn’t make a single seat available for me. If evil had a voice, it’d be this constant lampooning. "It looks like Amal's face caught fire and someone tried putting it out with a hammer,” offered Emily. I plunged into deeper despair. I was an isolated wildebeest being malevolently devoured by ferocious hyenas. I didn’t anticipate for Athletics Carnival because it was appearing/unraveling to be another dreadful day.