Personal Narrative : A Short Story Of A Grandfather's House

As I sat in my fourth grade English class listening to my teacher tell me "you have a book report due in just two short weeks" and I thought to myself how am I ever going to do this? I have never been a good writer and I have no idea where to begin explaining the book "Little House on The Praire" and presenting it in front of the class without being embaressed as all get out.The day went on as I thought about it more and more the bell rang. I ran out to my mom's car and stated "Mom I have a book report due in just two short weeks and I cant do it. She said "why not honey" I said " Im just not s good enough writer" She said " yes you are and yes you can and you will do a fantastic job at it. That is when I realized I am a writer.

I didn't always live in California. Before California I lived in Denver, Colorado. Before Denver I lived in Aurora, Colorado. When we moved to california we had a family of five. We moved to California, when I was six, Then we lived at my grandma’s house in Riverside for a year. We found a place on Ferree Street and that became our home.

On Monday 6/29/2015 Sgt. Alexander and I was dispatched to the Hostess House located at 6741 Highway 70 in reference to 2 subject, Mr. Burnette and Mr. Jacobs that were renting room 251 and had outstanding warrants.

I unlock the metal gate and climb onto the front patio. Before me stands a two-story house with newly-refurbished windows and a fresh coat of white paint. I admire the house’s beauty as I stroll past it. I walk through a crowded path of mohintli, white laelia, tithonia, and dahlias that seem to guide me to the real reason I am at this address. After moving the branches of some avocado trees out of the way, I finally find the treasure I am seeking: a small rose-colored house with just two windows and two rooms. With the key my father gave me, I open the doors to enter the rooms. The light switch does not work, so only shadows are present in the room. Giant cracks graze the walls like the markings of a lion. On the ceiling, an intricate flower design shines proudly with the rest of the room, slowly losing its will to decay. Only broken furniture stands in the corners of the room, ashamed to be present in front of a girl from the North. After taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I lock the door, look to the sky, and walk back to the house I am staying at with my

My current plan as far as outlining where this thesis is going to go involves dividing Grandpa’s story whereby every part of it will fit into each among the five assigned milestones, starting with his earliest memory in 1941 of Christmas Day at 4 River Lane.

On April 1, 2000, I was placed into a group home because of my behavior at the home. My dad and I didn’t get along. So he sent me to a placed called Bowman House. When I arrived there the first person I met was a lady name Alexander, she begin showing me around the units. Alexander was called the granny of the units. It was two units for the boys and girls. She took me to the boys unit first to look at the units. After I looked at the boys unit she took me to the girls unit. Where I would be staying. I had the chance to bond with Alexander, it wasn’t something I was trying to do it just happen. I had to stay with Alexander until the staff came back from picking the other peers up from school. An hour pass and the peers came back I had to go

Ultimately, after examining the child's location with an ultrasound, the physician informed Dax, "I have to take her for the C-section." I yowled for 10 mins. I was so dissatisfied. I attempted actually difficult! Yet she appeared magnificently. They placed her on my breast, and also I was so delighted that everyone was safe.

The agency I chose to interview was MyHouse at 300 North Willow in Wasilla, Alaska. Their mission is to provide safe shelter for homeless youth with a goal of connecting kids to a network of caring individuals and agencies able to assist them in becoming self-sufficient. They have a board of directors that meet regularly to discuss issues and where to go next with the agency.

I woke up and looked over to where Erik's mattress was, he was gone but I wasn't surprised. I laid my head back down and awoke about 15 minutes later. Erik was sitting on his mattress looking in my direction smiling.

In a town, with a population of 50, lies a small dwelling coated with multiple turtle statues, an acre of land, a variety of butterfly gardens belonging to my grandparents, however that house carries many memories and cherished moments from my childhood. The forty-five-minute drive filled with sweet triumph to sour defeat from the license plate game with my younger sister, allowed me to pass the time until we arrived to outspread arms from our loving and caring grandparents. Inside, a wonderful aroma of lavender and food boiling on the stove that served us dinner, rams into you like a train as soon as you open the door. Looking now, memories of all the accidents my sisters and I got into, from paint streaks of a vast paint

We didn’t always live on Mason Park Way. Before it was Biddeford Pl on the first floor and before that it was the eleventh floor in Belgium and before that I can’t remember. By the time we got to Biddeford Pl, it was the four of us. Me my mom my brother and my dad. Until we had moved to our house on Mason Park Way, I never fully understood what having a family and a home meant to me. The house on Mason Park Way is ours. We don’t have to worry about paying rent or keeping the immaculate white walls clean. It’s ours and we have the liberty to do whatever we want. And it’s big. The large rugs are cozy and our furniture is inviting. And it’s ours.

The rusty, metal gate is broken and falling apart. I open the gate to let myself in as the wind blows by gently. The earthy and dead smells, like a cemetery are very unpleasant for me, but I can’t give up now. I need to know what happened to my family before they died. I know it wasn’t a suicide like the police said. I lost my family when I was nine; my dad, my mom and both of my grandparents. I’ve stayed at my aunt’s house ever since. And there’s never a day that I don’t miss them. As I slowly walk toward the house, I can tell how humid the air is, by my sticky skin is rubbing against each other. I’m blinded by the fog around the house as I step closer and closer. The place is silent, so silent that I could hear my own heart beating; fast

Against odds appearing as though they could never get conquered, I’d managed to climb out of an inescapable hole. Upon reaching the halfway point of a six-week Summer 2012 crash course in Intermediate Spanish, my grade stood at an awful 74% (or a solid C). A big opportunity for redemption soon arrived in the form of an assignment to give a four-to-six-minute presentation in Spanish about someone who has affected my life in a profound and powerful way. Using notes taken during a visit one weekend to Grandpa’s house, I gave a speech Professor Almonte thought was bueno enough to merit an ‘A’ grade. Feeling my confidence bolstered, I tackled the remaining tasks with a renewed dedication and completed what was back then my greatest academic turnaround

I have an abundance of grotesque, yet, barely visible memories of childhood. However, no breathtaking family trips, no unique family togetherness that taught a moral lesson, no abnormal holidays. We still ate family meals together, but most often the children and adults lived in different worlds. When I needed comforting or wanted the best of both worlds, I could turn to my Grandpa.

When we were together we were invincible, us against the world. I’d look up to him, not only because he was 6’4, but because he was my grandpa. I have clear memories of him picking me up from school, playing old school reggae music during our adventurous car rides. We’d always sing along to our favorites, sometimes turn the music up so loud the people in the cars next to us could hear it. When I would visit his apartment, the familiar smell of drywall and pennies would fill the air. It was my hideaway, my home away from home. My grandpa collected pennies in water jugs. He would say that one day they’d be worth more than just pennies. I loved it there, not only because he had a freezer filled with many flavors of ice cream to which he would often say to me “you can have all you can eat” but because it was our time to bond. For five years it was my mom, my dad, and my grandpa helping me to grow. Those are my favorite people, my role models. Being around my grandpa brought me such comfort and joy.