Rock Collection Narrative

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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.

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.

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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

In Act I (1743-1744), Krogstad informs Nora that her forgery of her father’s name is a fraud against Krogstad and threatens to expose her to Torvald

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.

Languages are one of the most significant developments of humans. Language is one of the few means of communication which enclose a large number of beliefs, values and are provided paths to see the world in different perceptive. The languages are thought to be in danger when someone talks about native languages or mother’s tongue in foreign countries. Mother’s tongue is a child’s first language and it can be learned since birth. This mother’s language cannot be used often in foreign countries. As a result, significant numbers of languages are ceasing to pass from one generation to another. Cultural diversity and languages are essential assets of any nation, representing their identity across the world. According to UNESCO, people in several countries such as the USA, UK or Australia tried to adopt English as their common language at the expense of their mother tongue. It was widely agreed that native languages are extremely rich for any cultural and communal heritage because such languages represent not the only linkage of the speakers with their past but also expresses an identity. It is because of languages by which one deal with human experience and knowledge of the world. By losing such languages, there is far more chance of losing the heritage and cultural knowledge of ancestors. Additionally, Multilingualism and Bi are believed to be assets