As I close my eyes my mind drifts back to my younger years when I didn’t have a care in the world, some of my earliest memories are that of a tiny blue-collar community nestled deep in the hollers of Clarksburg, West Virginia. I can still picture the luscious green farm meadows with rolling hills that seemed to touch that beautiful blue sky with the ever present fluffy marsh mellow clouds floating by peacefully as if to mind its own business. High up on the corner of the hill overlooking the railroad tracks, that legend has John Henry helped build sits the maple tree my late grandpa planted back in the late spring of 1917, when he was just a young lad of seven years old. While gazing out across the pasture I can still see Mr. Panther driving that old faded blue Ford tractor of his as a train whistle fades slowly off in the distant, with its ever so distinguished wailing cry sound. Life was much simpler back then, where my idea of fun was riding on the tractor with my dear old friend, Mr. Panther.
I still remember when I was only four years old, that my best friend Steve and I would go knock on Mr. John Panther’s old wooden screen door. As we patiently waited for someone to answer the door we could hear the small fan blowing from inside the house, while the fresh aroma of home made blackberry cobbler made its way outside to the shaded front porch. Eventually you could hear the creaking sound of Mrs. Panther walking followed by her shadow and before we knew it, Mrs. Panther would be opening the front door to give both of us a hug as if we were her favorite grandchildren. From there she would limp to her tidy little kitchen and serve us a slice of her freshly made blackberry cobbler with a scoop of fresh vanilla ice cream. I...
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...ractor is every little boy’s fantasy, and I was fortunate enough to have lived it.
As I look back to those days of riding the tractor with Mr. Panther, it’s hard to believe that forty years has already passed me by. This little essay is just proof that the little things in life never go unforgotten. Although that barn is still sitting there, it hasn’t breathed any life in over thirty years. Mr. Panther passed away one dark, rainy night back in 1977 when I was only seven years old. I didn’t realize it then, that with him a part of me died, that still lives in my memories. Those were some of the best times of my life, and this time in my life truly did have a rich taste, a flavor to it. Can I put my finger on it? No! But boy I can sure feel it in my heart, every time I hear the thumping rickety, rick, rick of a tractor as it goes sputtering along in a pasture.
Part I of A Sand County Almanac is devoted to the details of a single piece of land: Leopold’s 120-acre farmed-out farmstead in central Wisconsin, abandoned as a farm years before because of the poor soil from which the "sand counties" took their nickname. It was at this weekend retreat, Leopold says, "that we try to rebuild, with shovel and axe, what we are losing elsewhere". Month by month, Leopold leads the reader through the progression of the seasons with descriptions of such things as skunk tracks, mouse economics, the songs, habits, and attitudes of dozens of bird species, cycles of high water in the river, the timely appearance and blooming of several plants, and the joys of cutting one’s own firewood.
Abbey and McCandless experience different degrees of separation from industrial living, but neither wholly rejects it. Abbey, a National Park Service employee in Utah, states “I am here not only to evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural apparatus but also to confront immediately and directly if it’s possible, the bare bones of existence” (6). While Abbey surround...
A number of ideas, suggestions, and points can be extracted from “Illinois Bus Ride,” a passage from Aldo Leopold’s collection of essays entitled A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There. However, there must be one main thesis that the author is attempting to get through to his audience. Leopold argues that we Americans have manipulated the landscape and ecosystem of the prairie so that it seems to be nothing more that a tool at our disposal. All aspects of what was once a beautiful, untamed frontier have been driven back further and further, until they were trapped in the ditches.
The first impression of the Valley-white water, azaleas, cool fir caverns, tall pines, and solid oaks, cliffs rising to undreamed-of heights, the poignant sounds and smells of the sierra, the whirling flourish of the stage stop at Camp Curry with its bewildering activities of porters, tourists, desk clerks, and mountain jays, and the dark green-bright mood of our tent-was a culminations of experience so intense as to be almost painful. From that day in 1916, my life has been colored and modulated by the great earth-gesture of the Sierra. (Fischer 9)
As a kid going to southern Indiana for my family's weekend reunion in the middle of July seemed to be a stress-free heaven. Talking with family while eating all of the great food everyone made, and awesome fishing in the glistening pond served as a retreat from the textbooks, homework, and tests in school. Although I never did any reading, writing, or math at the reunion, I learned some of the most valuable lessons at that 50-acre property in the dog days of summer. My great uncle, who owned the pond, taught me the best fishing spots, my dad taught me how to set up a tent, and my uncle Vance taught me the great values of our family between old folk songs. It was from these stories that I developed a great sense of pride in my family.
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
The town of Matewan, West Virginia was my home for a majority of my life. I grew up there, I was taught there, and I learned how to mine there. My family consisted of my father, Patrick O’Reilly, my mother, Ennis O’Reilly, and me, Bobby O’Reilly, or just Bob for short. In my earliest of memories in Matewan, I could remember my father leaving in the mornings to serve his shift in the mine like all the other men in the town. My father was a great man of humble upbringings, and I will always remember what he used to tell me every night he got home from his shift, “Bobby, Let us sacrifice our today so that our children can have a better tomorrow.” Today, when I look back at what my father told me, I see it as a testament of his love for his family and his desire that I achieve greatness in my life. I believe that’s what made my father a great man, and until his fateful day on September 29, 1917, I thought that he was invincible. My mother, Ennis, was a magnificent yet rowdy women, and I remember how she used to speak profanities about the mines when I was little. My mother always felt that my father was being taken advantage of down in those mines, and she would let my father have it every
After reading the poem entitled “Youth”, I felt that James Wright was not only describing the life of his father but also the lives of the many other factory workers in the Ohio Valley. Many of these workers had either dropped out of school or went straight to the factories after high school, never really getting a chance to enjoy their lives as young `````adults. I think that has something to do with the title of this poem. It’s clear that Wright knew his father and the other men were not satisfied with their jobs and just chose not to speak about it. These factory workers slaved away and then came home “quiet as the evening” probably because they were content to just be relaxing at home with their families. They knew that this was their way of life and they had to do it, even if they had big dreams to someday get away. I think that Wright was also trying to make a point that these men who worked so hard every day were not valued as much as they should have been. These men did not have the education to get a higher paying job but they did have the proper skills and knowledge to work in the factories. I like that James Wright mentioned Sherwood Anderson in this poem as I enjoy his work. Anderson left his Ohio hometown for Chicago to pursuit bigger and better things because he knew if he stayed in the area, he would be unhappy. However, it is a little ironic that Anderson one day just got up and left in the middle of writing and was said to have a mental breakdown.
The saying about the grass always being greener on the other side comes alive with Mr. Wright’s opening story as he describes the difference between the yards on each side of the railroad tracks. You can almost feel the envy not only for the lushness, but the advantages that he sees with the “trees, hedges, and the sloping embankments of their lawns” (Wright, 1937, p. 21). As cruel and unsympathetic as his mother’s response was to his battlefield injury, it helped to instill the ...
There are about twenty lots in our neighborhood; all consist of close to three and a half acres. Most of the lots have houses now, all of them are big and well kept; a perfect place to raise an upper-middle class family. Just outside of Richmond, the Boscobel neighborhood gives individuals a constant taste of the southern country air, a place to grow a garden, to sit out on the porch at night and look at the stars.… The neighbors are kind as they greet one another in passing. Families come together for picnics and cook-outs and mothers go on walks together with their dogs while the kids are in school. The kids of the neighborhood love to play by the creek in the back yard. They build forts and huts, find pretend food and crayfish in the creek, and play hide-and-seek in the woods beyond the creek. It is the peaceful, everyday life in the Boscobel neighborhood.
When Willy and Linda purchased their home in Brooklyn, it seemed far removed from the city. Willy was young and strong and he believed he had a future full of success. He and his sons cut the tree limbs that threatened his home and put up a hammock that he would enjoy with his children. The green fields filled his home with wonderful aromas. Over the years, while Willy was struggling to pay for his home, the city grew and eventually surrounded the house.
Looking back on a childhood filled with events and memories, I find it rather difficult to pick on that leaves me with the fabled “warm and fuzzy feelings.” As the daughter of an Air Force Major, I had the pleasure of traveling across America in many moving trips. I have visited the monstrous trees of the Sequoia National Forest, stood on the edge of the Grande Canyon and have jumped on the beds at Caesar’s Palace in Lake Tahoe. However, I have discovered that when reflecting on my childhood, it is not the trips that come to mind, instead there are details from everyday doings; a deck of cards, a silver bank or an ice cream flavor.
We slowly crept around the corner, finally sneaking a peek at our cabin. As I hopped out of the front seat of the truck, a sharp sense of loneliness came over me. I looked around and saw nothing but the leaves on the trees glittering from the constant blowing wind. Catching myself standing staring around me at all the beautiful trees, I noticed that the trees have not changed at all, but still stand tall and as close as usual. I realized that the trees surrounding the cabin are similar to the being of my family: the feelings of never being parted when were all together staying at our cabin.
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her gargantuan skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every morning together