The wind is swirling and thrashing around the tress. Despite the unsettle weather, I still decided to leave on Friday from Lancaster to revisit my town where I was born and brought up. My town stands on the hills. They are not the treacherous hilltops of the alpine, but the ancient rolling spine of the hilly. The entire town is mantled by pale cerulean sky and sometimes revealing a mixed palette of forest green, purple, and crimson. Looking up or across, a circle of lilies slopes covering by modest row houses and luxury Victorian mansions.
I grow up in this graceful and historical town that located in the north, cradled by ancient altitude, 400-500 feet above sea level, and cooler temperatures than the other areas. During the 18th century--Revolutionary War, the area was one of many summer vacation spots due to its nice temperatures. Chestnut Hill is still known as one of the influential areas of Philadelphia. In addition, Chestnut Hill was constructed to serve Union Army soldiers during the American Civil War and served as both a “street car suburb” and a “rail road suburb of the Center City.
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Today, my mother and I once again stepped into our beloved town. The old fashioned bustling markets and shops greets us. There over 100 unique shops all over the streets. The dining of all sorts, from fine cuisine to fast food, such as, Chinese restaurants, Thai restaurants, Italian restaurants, coffee shops, McDonalds and so on. Chestnut Hill is located along the 1,800 acres of Bissahickon Vally Park where provides visitors and residents with convenient access to biking, walking horseback riding, walking, jogging, picnicking and fishing. Chestnut Hill is always a stimulating, sociable, and sophisticated place for
I am from a small town called Bristol Borough, Pennsylvania. It is along the Delaware River, about 25 miles northeast of Philadelphia. Bristol Borough was founded in 1681. This is the states third oldest borough, that was once a busy river port with important shipbuilding activities (Cohen 438). It is predominately residential, with the exception of Mill Street, the community's traditional commercial street. It includes fine examples of many major styles and idioms, reflecting the community's long history and its importance as a transportation and commercial center (Owen 133). The 28-acre Bristol Industrial Historic District includes the original town of Bristol and the residential area that extends northeast along the bank of the Delaware River (Owen 132). The Bristol Industrial Historic District is a significant collection of the factory and mill complexes containing elements dating from 1875-1937 (Owen 133). Among the mills is the Grundy Mill Complex. It is a visual representation of industrial growth of Bristol Borough. This mill was run by Joseph R. Grundy. The dramatic scale of later buildings stand as the source and monument to the wealth and power of Joseph Grundy (Owen 145). Joseph Grundy was the proprietor of the Bristol Worsted Mills, and one of the most prominent manufacturers and businessmen of Bucks County (Green 252). The Bristol Worsted Mills no longer run but the building is still standing. Bristol owes a lot to Joseph R. Grundy for his contributions to the people and the town itself.
Elijah Anderson, a modern day sociologist, takes us on a walk down Germantown Avenue. Germantown Avenue is a major thoroughfare in the City of Philadelphia, which connects to inner city Philadelphia to some of the surrounding high-wealth suburbs. Philadelphia has a rich and long history, not all of which is good. Many people when speaking of Philadelphia comment on their diverse neighborhoods, much like little towns. Unfortunately, while some of these neighborhoods are good, some are just life threatening dangerous. Anderson through his writing is able to articulate a visual distinction as he walks down Germantown Avenue.
*Murray, Judith Sargent. Bonnie Hurd Smith, ed.From Gloucester to Philadelphia in 1790: Observations, Anecdotes, and Thoughts from the 18th-Century Letters of Judith Sargent Murray. Cambridge, Mass.: Judith Sargent Murray Society and Curious Traveller Press, 1998.
Mrs. Carrington leads the reader through the plains skirting the Rocky Mountains as she describes the land. Most notably she re...
By noon they had begun to climb toward the gap in the mountains. Riding up through the lavender or soapweed, under the Animas peaks. The shadow of an eagle that had set forth from the line of riders below and they looked up to mark it where it rode in that brittle blue and faultless void. In the evening they came out to upon a mesa that overlooked all the country to the north... The crumpled butcher paper mountains lay in sharp shadowfold under the long blue dusk and in the middle distance the glazed bed of a dry lake lay shimmering like the mare imbrium. (168)
The mentioning of there being only bare horizon between buildings and the farming characteristics help determine the town is what is usually pictured as a small farming town, The road they walk on is dirt, the guilt letters on the bank, and the string of houses with the weathered grey or peeling paint almost represents a lifeless area with little to nothing occurring there and being affected by the dog and the whole situation and how it leads to the trees death eliminates any positive vibes in the town.
historical interactions shaped by an ocean of economic tides. It has been both blessed and scorned by its’ centuries of existence, both praised and cursed by its’ generations of inhabitants, seen both repetition and divergence, but one notion is certain: its’ evolution is perpetual. This analysis serves to journey through the vast history of Philadelphia, evaluating its’ economic successes and failures, while simultaneously gaining an understanding of how these outcomes shaped its’ evolutions as a city. The journey begins at the birthplace of Philadelphia, well before
I woke up early in the morning with pure excitement. Today, I was heading to Cedar Point with my long time close friend, Sarah. The sun was shining, it was the perfect mood to go to an amusement park. My mom and I drove through the flat cornfields of Ohio, to her farmhouse. Once I picked up Sarah, we were headed to America’s Rockin’ Roller-Coast also known as Cedar Point. Cedar Point is on a peninsula surrounded by the fresh waters of Lake Erie located . It's actually quite nice, if you don't include the often high winds which often force the employees to close the rides due to the high risk of liability and the frequent nats. The Dragster is sitting smack dab in the middle of the park's midway. The height makes the dragster something that you can’t miss, especially on the causeway.
The drive to cross the Kentucky border had taken hours and hours of strenuous patience to finally arrive in another state. The view was by far country like as hints of cow manure could be smelled far from a distance. We drive through small towns, half the size of our hometown of Glen Ellyn had been the biggest town we've seen if not smaller. The scenery had overwhelmed us, as lumps of Earth from a great distance turned to perfectly molded hills, but as we got closer and closer to our destination the hills no longer were hills anymore, instead the hills had transformed to massive mountains of various sizes. These mountains surrounded our every view as if we had sunken into a great big deep hole of green pastures. Our path of direction was seen, as the trails of our road that had followed for numerous hours ended up winding up the mountainous mountains in a corkscrew dizzy-like matter.
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
for the reader of the town and residents of this town on a normal summer morning.
About half-way between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes---a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars cr...
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
Fortunately, I wake every morning to the most beautiful sun lit house. I sit on my porch sipping coffee, while I drink in an atmosphere that steals my breath away. Rolling hills lay before me that undulate until they crash into golden purple mountains. Oh how they are covered in spectacular fauna, ever blooming foliage, and trees that are heavy with pungent fruit. Green it is always so green here at my house. Here where the air lays heavy and cool on my skin as does the striking rays of the sun upon my cheeks. I know in my soul why I choose to be here every day. Pocketed in all the nooks and crannies of these valleys and hills are stately homes, rich with architecture resplendent. Diversity is the palate here; ...
I used to go there to sit down on a rock and watch the town and my trees. There was a very old tree, a maple tree, with a huge trunk. The others were smaller, three in the back, three on my left side and the old maple tree on my right. There were flowers, many kinds, white, yellow, purple and blue. It was nobody's place. Nobody owned that hill, but it was beautiful and peaceful and I dreamed many times about a white house over there.