Rock Collection Narrative

When our bus pulled up we hurried onto it. I didn’t exactly know what we were doing, but I was still excited because it was something new that I haven’t done before. The bus was soon full of people eager to go to the excursion. When our bus pulled off the highway to a small gravel parkway next to a river I wasn’t sure what to expect. There was a lady that met us as we got off the bus and led us toward a small shack and what looked like a meeting hall. She explained that the small shack, which was only about ten feet by ten feet on the sides, had housed four men for part of a winter when they were hunting and got lost. We passed by a cage, however I didn’t see any animals. The lady led us inside the bigger building to where a man was waiting. They served us hot chocolate and donuts before they began talking. After everyone had refreshments they began to explain that a lot of people in Alaska, especially in the backcountry, still had to hunt for every meal. They would go out for long periods at a time to get food to support their family because the nearest grocery store would be miles and miles away. They then spoke about the native wildlife of Alaska and showed us pelts of animals that they had killed or found. We were allowed to buy the pelts, though I would rather save my money for something else. After that we were escorted outside to the big enclosure. I now saw that there were two reindeer roaming around. We were given food to feed them with and when I

I made my way to my aunt’s house. Her home smelled of fresh cut pine, and she offered me a cup of coffee with a cinnamon stick in it. I accepted, and we went to the kitchen table and discussed our week. As she talked, I looked out her kitchen table. A small oak grew in the front yard. Snow capped the birdfeeder beside her bird bath.

The rain kept on hitting the top of my car as I drove down the old road, like how a woodpecker pecks holes into trees looking for bugs. The town of Tahlequah had really changed since I saw it last about 40 years ago. There were paved roads now and a bigger school. The small shops I remembered were now big Sears and Target stores. Busy people walked on sidewalks trying not to get rained on, and cars drove on, with so many miles to go. As I got farther out and the buildings started to trickle out into countryside, I noticed a new sound that rose above all the rest.

Being in the home was like a separate world, one between life and death. When I reached the outside world again everything seemed so fresh. There were bright yellow-green leaves that hung with an arrogant vivacity, cars that sped by with such fervor, wind blowing with verve and energy, lively children playing with a vivacious lust for life, and the vitality that exudes from the air into your lungs. I wanted to bring this energy into

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

I shared a home with my sister, brother, mother, our grandfather, and our great-grandmother in a small community outside of Holly Springs, MS, named Chulahoma. At the age of six I began attending a one-room school three miles away from my home. I made the long trek there every morning, accompanied by my teacher and my two siblings. Our family raised a farm, which we helped with the upkeep of. We were fortunate enough that we didn’t have to live in poverty. On the farm, we raised chickens, cows, and hogs, which we used for food, so we had all the meat we needed. There was also a pond nearby where we fished, my mother especially loved fishing.

I didn't visit the farm that year. Still, the fire never faded from my mind. I stared at the dancing flames, which now were not only blazes, but also unforgettable moments I had at my foster homes. I felt the cozy heat, yielded not by burning wood but by warm hugs. And I became truly fascinated by the blazing unpredictability - not the sudden sparks that lighted the night , but the uncertainties that made me grow

After a supper of fried fish, grits, and biscuits, the children’s bellies were full and their imaginations were running wild- they hadn’t completely forgotten living on the trail- The same as when they were younger, they wanted Charity to tell them a story before they went to sleep. She smiled at their eagerness, remembering all the stories she had told them at night while they were on the trail from Sandersville to Canton. It seemed that once they were settled in a house and not camping under the stars, the need for her bedtime stories were no longer necessary. Living on the trail seemed to bring her children much closer to her; she missed living that way…

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

In grade school, my teacher scribbled on my paper in bold red ink, “Great story! You should be an author. Do you know what that is?” My dream to write a Memoir was born.

The car suddenly stopped and jolted me from my sleep. Disoriented, I looked around and tried to make sense of where I was and what I was doing. Over to my left, I saw my sister doing the same. Tall, blue, connected houses surrounded us and we were parked in the middle of a pristine parking lot. Green, luscious lawns sat in front of those blue houses. A gigantic tree surrounded by beautiful multicolored flowers sat to the left of a dumpster and a wooden sign with white script on it. “The Pointe at Stoneview,” I read to myself.

It was a cool September evening and my mom was driving me from Los Angeles all the way to Johannesville. As we drove on quiet, deserted roads I stared out the passenger’s window and saw nothing but hills with tall, dry, golden-brown grasses. It certainly wasn’t anything like what you’d see in pictures of beautiful landscapes but it wasn’t too bad either, I actually kind of liked it. Looking at those golden hills rush past my window somehow relaxed me and sent me into a staring trance, my mind traveled to other-worldly places where I could let my imagination run wild.

I buckled up my seat belt preparing myself for the long ride ahead. The dirty window slowly rolled down right past my eyes, making a squeaky noise, as I yelled goodbye to our hosts. As I stared out the back window and saw our hosts slowly start to fade as we drove away, then started reminiscing all the memories made. I plugged in my headphones and drowned myself in my music as I stared at the newly built houses, watching kids playing kickball outside. I looked up with a smile on my face as my dad slowly rolled down the windows as the sound of cowbells and banjos filled the air. To my surprise, I was surrounded by cowboy boots and hats, and the smell of barbeque in the air. My dad slowly drove through the heart of downtown Nashville before finding a spot to park. In amazement, we pulled up to a restaurant called

The decade of rock history that interests me the most was the sixties. It interests me for many reasons. One of them is that this decade begins to include social consciousness and political statements in music. This catches my attention because before I thought that most music already had these topics. Another reason is that and bubblegum music started out in this decade. I didn't know what these genres of music were until I found them on the website.

I had violent, grass-stained war games with my neighborhood friends, while my mother worked in her small vegetable garden among the honeybees, and watched things grow. An ever-present warming smell of knishes and hot dogs permeated around every inch of my block as the nearby concession pumped a constant flow of fresh food to hungry little leaguers and their families. Looking up, the summer sky looked like an Easter egg God had dipped in blue dye.