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Descriptive Essay About Isaac Island

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Right now, if someone were to ask me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I’d know exactly what to say. I know what I want to major in, who I want to work for, and how I want to retire. I have not stopped thinking about the future since I started sophomore year in high school. It might be an obsession, or it might be the continuous asking of questions like “So what do you want to do?” by teachers and family. Either way, I find it hard to live in the moment sometimes. Yoga, meditation, and exercise have all helped me with this. However, a little island in Ontario has always been my best teacher in how to appreciate the present. Isaac island was named after a Canadian soldier who fought in the Boer war. It was given to him as a reward for …show more content…

Although he had died thirteen years before I was born, I still try to imagine what he was like. I would expect him to be tall, like my grandmother, and blue eyed with a sculpted face with blonde hair. The only pictures I’ve seen of him were when he was young, in black and white, but for some reason I always picture him in a red flannel and jeans with suspenders. There is really no reason why I imagine him that way - I just have an intuition that red was his color. And he’d smell like the cottage. A gentle, fresh breath of aging wood and lake water. My family tells me Grandpa Larson built the cottage in the 60s with only his bare hands, his last project before leaving. Before my parents divorce, when I was in elementary school, my mom and dad would take my brother and I for a week every other summer. We stopped going after I started fifth grade. My mother did not seem like she enjoyed going to the cottage, and I could understand why - she is not a nature person. I believe the only reason why she went was because my dad liked to go and she did not want us to go alone without her. She had never met him, but she has told me that she sees Grandpa Larson when she goes up there. In the middle of the night, he sits at the kitchen counter, doing something with his hands. When she first encountered seeing my grandfather, my dad told her he must have been organizing the fish lures in his tackle box or spooling his reels. “He always did that at the end of a long fishing day,”

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