“Hurry up, Yuvy,” my dad calls to me. I shuffle over the ice, trying to catch up with my family on the gritty path. Tightening the straps on my backpack, I lurch forward, passing through the shadows of the towering glacier above me. I keep my head up and follow my dad’s tracks. I remember ice skating with my dad when I was six years old. I would grab his sleeve, and cling to him as we went around the rink. Even when I slipped, he would pick me up and set me back on course – everything was okay. But when I stumble over the pitted trail, and my foot catches in a small icy crevice, my dad is nowhere to be found. A cool breeze laid on top of the mountain. My family - dressed in spiked shoes, long down coats, and fuzzy earmuffs - stands at the base
The people who I look up to is my mom and my dad. Ever since I was born, they helped me with my problem that I have. Every day after school my mom would help me with my homework, because most of the time I don’t understand my assignment, that she knew how to do some math work, because I would forget how to answer my math, while my dad is at work. On his days off me and my dad would sometimes go fishing in the river or a lake, because he would like to spend time with. Other times we would go hunting for deer or bird, because it would be boring if we didn’t do
As I grew older, I became more mature and sophisticated. I became more knowledgeable, formed my own opinions and political views, and gained new insight into my life. I became more sociable and saw people and things in a new light. I also lose my naivety and saw who my dad truly was for the first time and that saddened me.
It was similar to the suburban street I grew up on, but in lieu of cookie-cutter houses with stale Bermuda grass, there stood wood cabins with yards covered in snow. The reddish-orange light emanating from the towering street lights pierced through a white fog and gently illuminated the area. Exiting the car, I was overwhelmed with a flurry of new sensations. The gently falling snow absorbed all of the sounds I was used to hearing in a residential area.The low hum of passing cars, birds singing from the trees, and the sound of blowing wind appeared to be muffled, even silenced, by the steady falling snow. I felt enveloped in a cool, but somehow familiar blanket. The smell of burning wood was coming from every direction, as each house I looked at had a thin, grayish plume rising gently from the chimney. The plumes represented the warmth and comfort of the many people I imagined to be nestled by the fire. Looking down the street, I noticed how freshly plowed it was. A thin layer of snow and ice-- like icing on a cupcake, or the glass top on my parent’s nightstand-- covered the street. But on the side of the street sat a pile of snow that could have swallowed me alive. Feeling taunted, I stood there and weighed my options. Chest deep mounds of frozen crystals begged me to dive in and lose myself. Preparing to succumb to the temptations before me, I was momentarily hindered by the fear of my parent’s wrath. But had that ever stopped me
Once we were out of the dock my dad accelerated out into the lake to find a good location to water ski. Dad asked, “Are you ready to ski?”
Next week is the five year anniversary of my dads passing. He went to be with the Lord on June 14th. Seven days shy of his birthday. [Dad did everything in seven’s, it was his favorite number.] When this popped up in my Facebook Memories this morning, I started thinking about the many different examples my parents sat for me growing up. Especially the ones my father sat. I spent far more time with my mom, but the time I spent with dad was always special. Dad really did teach by example. I can remember shopping as a family. Kids want to touch everything. Dad always told me to put my hands in my pockets. If I didn’t have pockets, I was to put my arms behind my back and hold my wrist. He made sure he did whatever it was I had to do. He also told
My Papa always had a big personality, the kind that made a person drop whatever they were doing just to listen to him sing, laugh, tell a story- even if it was just a simple tale of washing the car- that was what made him the best performer. My Papa was always humming a melody, tapping a beat, bobbing his head to song that no one else could hear. Music was everything to him, for every memory he had there was a soundtrack, for every emotion he had felt over the years Papa could think of a song to perfectly relate to it- one that he and his family had lovingly dubbed as His Song was My Way by Elvis Presley. I had always looked up to the broad-shouldered man because of what he taught me to me about music- ranging from how to count the beats and find the chords, to just listening to notes with an open heart and seeing where it takes you. This man was filled with life in the best way, and everyone wanted to be around him because of it.
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
Turning off of the main road I am always amazed by how many trails we are able to see without even leaving the comfort of my pickup truck. Enjoying the warmth of the dry air blasting onto our faces from the vents, I glanced over to my best friend Baloo, sitting in the chair next to me. The slobbery, toothy grin on his face, reminded me how much he loves being out of the city. As he wiggled in his chair with excitement, begging me to let him out so he could frolic through the newly fallen snow, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep him contained for much longer. I quickly put on my chocolate colored snow pants and slipped into my ancient snow boots that have clearly seen better days. I keep telling myself that I will buy new ones when my feet end up damp and cold after one of our hikes. Moving swiftly, I squeezed Baloo's feet into his canary yellow and black colored snow shoes and scoured the Velcro at the top to insure a snug fit. Opening the door led him to leap from his seat and instantly go into a barrel roll, scooting and contorting his body in ...
He arrived at his first destination after about an hour of hiking. After a short while he figured he had looked over his new found haven enough, he was ready. He started down the grade with a small arsenal, consisting of a shovel, about ten granola bars, two bottles of power-ade, his snowshoes, and what was left in his hydration bladder in his pack. After descending about two hundred feet he came into the clearing he was hoping to find, it was as smooth as silk, twenty inches of fresh powder under his board. Up ahead he say a small but formidable drop off on the mountain, he knew if he was going to escape this with his dignity he was going to have to work some magic, to his success. The drop was approximately eighteen feet, but he was ready for it, he landed perfectly, it was like a dream the poof of snow exploding out from his impact, and the gentle flakes hitting his face. As he continued down the slope he did not realize that his gentle landing had severely weakened the physical structure of the mountain’s blanket, and that any moment he could bring the mass down upon himself at impossible speeds.
My step-father influenced me to be successful. He and I had a real father-daughter relationship since he helped my mom immigrate. My life was fine until he became disabled and unresponsive.
it got too late. I walked into the woods and soon I was beside a lake
said, "Come here and give me a big hug." I looked up at my Dad,
We stood shivering, my arm around my sister, my feet turning pink from the ice. In just a few seconds, my dad burst out of the side door, holding what looked like pure fire and throwing it into the snow. Quickly it exploded into flames
I’m going to write about the day I lost someone most important in my life. John Doe, my dad was a very hardworking person, he never missed a day of work and was always willing to do anything for anyone. He was so energetic always so happy and was rarely mad. I feel blessed that I was raised by a wonderful person like him and hope to follow my dad’s footsteps one day. I would always refer myself as daddy’s girl and for quite a while I don’t know what got into me, but I never seemed to get along with my mom. It was always my dad I wanted to be with. The right words never came across my mind when being around my mom.
When I was about seven years old my dad wanted me to go out for basketball so I tried out, he is one of the most athletic people I know. Well ever since he had me go out for basketball I have been doing sports then when I want to give up when I can’t make that perfect lay up or when I can’t make that perfect over hand serve he will sit there and help me do it till I get it done and done right. My dad also taught me how to play half my spor...