Personal Narrative: My Grandpa's Cabin

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.

One day at our summer cabin in the woods me my mom,dad,brother, and sister were having a peaceful day except for that this time we were in danger having to live off the land. For we feared that some kind of creature had taken over our cabin. What was once a peaceful vacation spot was know a place of eeriness.

I wrestled with pillows, quilts and books spread on the bed finding some space for nap. Again the hotter months of summers and spring were there; the work was strenuous, combatting uncontrollable wildfires. Because of the generally hot and dry climate, they pose a great risk to life and infrastructure. I struggled to fall asleep but the overbearing heat mocked at me. The air conditioner had gone off an hour agao, forcing my crew out of cabin but i was desperate to get some rest despite the fact i was sweating profusely. Eventually my eyes started to close slowly as i felt the heavy curtain of sleep. I was about to doze off but to my dismay, the fore alarm went off. We had to gear up quickly because the threat level was

I weaved on the sidewalk, around rocks, sticks and cracks. I exageratted the movement as best I could. I looked up and saw a white camry drive past me, just like mine. I craned my neck to follow it with my eyes. I looked ahead just in time to see my front tire slam into a raised edge of sidewalk. The shock resonated through mine and the bike’s body. And I felt the resistance of peddling disappear and I watched my chain fall off my bike. I began the slow deceleration out of hyperdrive and the world became more and more in focus. I didn’t hit my brakes, and I eventually glided to a slow stop. I closed my eye and took a deep sigh. I looked back at my chain a few hundred feet back laying flat and straight on the ground. And I felt a flash of intesne sadness, that even surprised me a little. But it was soon overcome by a dull and familiar sense of a harsh abusive reality toying with my existence. Chipping away a little here, and a little there,

The first day was pretty great. There was many cabins. Six of my friends and I decided to stay in a cabin called “willow.” The cabin had bunk beds and it had a bathroom and shower which was great because my friends and I wouldn’t have to share bathrooms and shower with all of the people. At the introduction they were telling me about the rules of the camp and our expectations. Then we ate lunch and I liked the food there it was really good. Then the real fun began. My friends and I went swimming. When I was standing on the edge of the bridge one of my friends pushed me. I got him back by doing it to him too. Then my friend and I went canoeing and we were doing really great at not tipping over but then we did tip over and we all fell in. It

I don’t remember the exact date but I remember that the year was either 2008 or 2009 and I was around eight or nine years old. I skipped school that day so I could go hunting with my dad, and so I got to skip school. At that time my dad was part of a hunting club and he was allowed to bring me with him.

So one day I had a friend named Kahlin Orso. He came over to my house to play for a little while. So after a while we got bored so we went on a fourwheeler ride through a 30 acre grass field. So we were riding along and out of nowhere the frontend just takes a big nose dive into a big creek bed and it got stuck. So we didn’t think it was that big of a deal and we tried to get it unstuck and we tried for about 20 minutes but we didn’t get it so we called Kahlin’s grandma because that's who he was staying with that weekend so we called her for help but she couldn’t help cause she was not at the house. Then I knew if I called my dad we would get in trouble so we tried to get it out for a few more minutes but again we failed.

If you travel roughly 29 miles up Highway 14 from Cedar City, Utah, you will stumble upon a small community called Duck Creek. The drive up the road takes you past streams, animal life, hunters, and ATV riders. Snuggled in the center of this community is my father’s log cabin. This is where I spent most of my childhood, and where memories of my first hunt, great ATV rides, and family adventures took place. This cabin is my second home, and an important place that I will share with my children to make new memories.

Before I even knew it, a bunch of people crowds around like it was a crime scene. I then left the area with a group of concerned people by my side. That’s when my mom chimes in, “ARE YOU OKAY!?” my mom yelled with concern.

I knew this was my only break so I made the most of it. I spotted the house across the street and the cover it could provide. I left my bike on the ground as I ran over to the house quickly, not looking back the entire way. It felt as if my feet weren’t even touching the ground, the second they did they leapt up again in fear, as if the asphalt were lava.

Pounding music I’ve never heard before, dancing kids, and lights flashing everywhere. That describes the exact moment I realized I want to do music. I was 8 years old and this was all foreign for me, I have never experienced anything like that. I knew what concerts where and seen videos of big ones, but if I was never introduced to local band concerts my life would have not been the same today. Something about watching kids in their teens playing their music with such passion made me so passionate, the kids in the audience too dancing, crowd surfing, singing every word to every song that their friends made, it made me want be a part of that community more than anything in the world. So that’s just what I did, I asked my sister to

I rushed down the road; my chubby cheeks jiggling as the wind blew swiftly onto my face. I felt like even Usain Bolt himself wouldn’t have been able to accelerate at the astonishing speeds I was going. Suddenly, once my father decided let go of my shoulders, I found myself spiraling down a hill uncontrollably. I grabbed the handlebars firmly as I screamed towards the heavens at the top of my lungs. My feet flailing around whilst attempting to scour for the pedals. Seconds later, I found myself crashing onto the side of the road, looking as though I had just challenged Evander Holyfield to a twelve–round fistfight. At that moment, I had decided, with the firm resolve of a fickle-minded ten-year old kid, to never ride a bike again.

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.

It all happened in a matter of seconds. He had decided to ride his motorcycle that day to work, unaware that it was going to rain later than evening. The roads were slick with rain and various other fluids, making the ride home a challenge. He was careful. At least, he thought he was. Turning his head to look at the billboard on the side of the road, his front tire hit a pothole. Beyond the face shield of his helmet, the terror on his face was evident as he lost control of bike and began to slide across the pavement. Though he wore a helmet, it was ill fitting and it came off as the out of control bike dragged him across the pavement. The friction from the bike sliding across the asphalt caused sparks. Unfortunately, a car with an oil leak

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.