As adults, we often use the scientific method, or process of elimination to help explain things that we cannot. Although, as children, we immediately jumped to conclusions no matter how otherworldly or outrageous our explanation. Whether we believed the sound coming from your closet was some type of terrifying monster, or the old woman that paced the side-walk kidnapped children and turned them into soap, explanation was left to our imagination. I can remember quiet a few thoughts like this, but one in particular has always stood out. It was a story my Grandpa told me one summer. A story about how the sound that the trees made when the wind blew was not the cracking of their branches, but was of them weeping. I can vividly recall that summer day at my Grandfather 's house on his farm. I sat next to his catfish pond with a fishing pole in hand, watching my bobber gently move across the water as a light wind blew. It was hot, humid Tennessee day and there was no better way to spend it than relaxing next to the water. I heard movement behind me and turned to see my Grandfather hobbli...
I remember once coming to the top of a mountain and finding a meadow that was bare grass except for one tree in the middle -- and from that tree hung a rope swing that looked to have been there for decades.
J.R.R Tolkien's action packed, fantasy driven, inspiring novel The Hobbit shows the message that everyone must know, that you should never give up even if all hope seems to be lost. It shows setting of evergreen forests with villages scattered along the paths of which they must take and mountains just on the horizon. The read must go along with bilbo baggins a hobbit that does not realize there is more to him than just being a baggins and that he will live up to his family's name. Even after gandalf tells him that he will embark on a great adventure he still doesn’t believe he is anymore than just bilbo. Therefor this story is inspiring and shows that with the setting, character, and theme combined make this story a great read.
When my father was twelve, he and his father built a small cabin in the town of Haverhill, New Hampshire. My grandfather has since passed away, but the cabin remains within my family. My childhood was spent driving the five hours to that cabin and then driving all around the state because we were so far from civilization. The town has since developed, but not until fairly recently. One of the places that my family most commonly frequented was Lake Winnipesaukee. One of my dogs even learned to swim at the lake after chasing a flock of sucks off of a dock. We spent an hour trying to lure her back to the shore – she loved the lake just as much as we did.
Imagine walking down an ancient path amidst a forest of tangled and twisted trees, some of which have existed since before a time even great grandparents can remember. The air echoes with sounds of life, and the fragrance is that of cedar or juniper… or something not quite either. The living things that dwell here, bridge a gap in time that many are totally unaware of and for the reasons about to be explained, may never become so. The beauty that surrounds this place is unexplainable in the tongue of man, yet its presence can be felt by all who choose to behold it. At least for now…
Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit, Or, There and Back Again. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1996. Print.
I have a lot of fond memories looking back on my childhood. My dad’s parents had a house on Granbury Lake; it was a kid’s paradise. I grew up fishing, which is my favorite thing to do, boating, water skiing, 4-wheeling, anything you could do outdoors we did it. My grandparents had a massive garden and rows of fruit trees that lined their properly. We would wake up early in the morning to help Pa Pa woke in the garden. Being from the city, we that this was the coolest thing ever. As a reward for our hard work, Na Na would treat us to a snack of fresh cherry tomatoes from the garden. Although, she would always call them little boy and little girl tomatoes. Night time was my favorite out at the lake because that’s when the fire flies would come out. Every evening around dusk we would get our mason jars, poke holes in the lids, and wait to spot the first lightning bug. We didn’t have to wait long until the whole night sky
The first and only time that my family moved, I was three-years-old. My parents bought a new house about four blocks away from our previous house. However, the new house was still being built, so my family moved in with my maternal grandmother – who lives about thirty minutes away – until the construction was completed a year later. Even though I was really young while we lived with my grandmother, some of my favorite childhood memories come from that year. My grandma’s house is a ten minute walk from the beach; a walk we would make at least once every
As a child growing up in a rural county, I didn’t have soccer practice or dance recitals; no play dates or playgrounds. I had trees to climb, woods to explore, bikes to ride and adventures to be had. I had bare feet in the grass, wincing on the gravel driveway, rocks digging into my soles. I had walnuts to crush, plums to eat, flowers to pick, bugs to catch. I had my little brothers to bug me, my mom to take care of me, my dad to laugh with me and my grandparents to hold me. I had books to read, worlds of words to get lost in. I had Saturday morning cartoons, Sunday morning church, and fireflies to catch every night.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
It’s funny how things that you used to do as a kid can change the course of people’s lives. Myself, when my parents told me and my brothers and sisters that we were going to the cabin meant a week of solid fun. My family has a cabin up on Camano Island, which is about 20 minutes north of Everett, right off of the I-5 interstate. My family would go up there during the summer with my cousins and grandma, and go swimming when the tide was in, build sandcastles when the tide was out, only to have them washed away when the tide came back in, build forts with the new driftwood that came in each year, explore the wrecked ship down the beach in one direction from our cabin, and scour the dunes that were north of our cabin. The dunes were the best part going to the cabin. We would always try to get there by walking along the wood that had been washed up and once we got there, we would race up the hills and jump down into the sand pits below. Another things that we all used to love doing, were to see who had carved messages into the sides of the dunes. There were all sorts of messages, love message from husband to wife, boyfriend to girlfriend. ‘I was here’ messages, and then there were simply names. That is what we always used to do. Every year, my two cousins, dad, three siblings and I would climb up into the dunes and carve our names into the wall using sticks. This was done over and over again for about 8-10 years. Over the last couple of years we did this we noticed that we could see a house at the top of the dunes. This was something that we never noticed before and when we asked my dad, he said that he never noticed it either. We thought nothing about it at the time, carved our names in the wall and went back to the cabin. Later on we heard from other people who lived up there that there was a big concern by the people who live in that house that all of the messages that people had carved along with the natural erosion of the hills has caused the hill side to be dangerously close to being pushed back far enough to where the house might fall down.
In early times, like today, people tried to find ways to explain things that they did not understand. There was a time when mice and rats were thought to have grown from cheese left in the corner, frogs were believed to grow from pond scum, and maggots were thought to come from rotting meat.
The familiar smell of soft cookies and homemade cooking are common thoughts when people think about their grandma's house. Great feasts and family gatherings play a part in everyone's grandmother's home. But when I really think about my grandma's house only one word comes to my mind: fun.
There is only one place in this world I would go to find the meaning of life, my childhood home. In my memories, that house has always been my sanctuary. Safety brings a touch of tranquility, free of twisted negativity that would clear the way of finding the meaning of my life. My house opens a door to a whirlwind of deep love for everything it stands for and distaste for the way it looks. When you 're living in an unseemly house, surrounded by people who thinks its an eyesore, was when I learned the superficiality of the people around me. That house became my heaven as well as, my hell. I was caught between my appreciation for my own home and the approval of others, but as I grew up I found out what I should treasure more is the simple joys of life.
When I think back to the days when I was a child, I think about all of my wonderful childhood memories. Often I wish to go back, back to that point in life when everything seemed simpler. Sometimes I think about it too much, knowing I cannot return. Yet there is still one place I can count on to take me back to that state of mind, my grandparent’s house and the land I love so much.
As I walk in through the door, I begin to sense the feeling of warmth come over me. This is the feeling I get every time I arrive at my Grandpa's house in Price, Utah. It's where I spent the first five years of my life. This is my second home.