The evening was hot, typical of summer nights in Michigan; the air was fervid leaving moisture clinging to my skin as I unrolled my sleeping bag inside the stuffy, crowded tent. Blinding flashlights cut through the duskiness of twilight as four girls struggled to gain comfort. Laying my head down on a makeshift pillow of clothing, a wave of exhaustion crashed over me, compliments of a day of kayaking and hiking. I listened to the gentle rustle of leaves and let the singing of crickets lull me to sleep. The vicissitude of weather came suddenly and unbeknownst to our small sleeping company. Thunder boomed. Lightning cracked and split the sky. Clouds formed overhead, rain began to fall, and the wind grew unpropitious. Clamoring voices pulled me from unconsciousness. Water pooled at the base of our tent, our rain fly and tarp doing little to protect us from the raging storm. Our counselor, Jane, ripped open the zippers of the neighboring tent and emerged. Her voice barely carried over the harsh drumming of the rain, coaxing us out of our saturated shelter where she explicated her …show more content…
Occasional bursts of lightning ignited the dark with a bright white light. I felt an inexplicable feeling of wonder as if we were the only people in the world; everyone else seemed unaware and undisturbed by the beating raindrops. The rough sand and grit embedded in the fabric of my sandals rubbed the tips of my toes and the back of my ankles as we jogged down the road. Laughter interrupted the sound of rain and thunder and we realized the quirkiness of our situation. Our plight would be enough to destroy the spirits of most people, yet no vulgarities spilled from our mouths. The only sound against the symphony of rain was a soft incantation: an old camp song. Beginning with one person, it spread to become louder and more
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
Both Phillip and Timothy are highly resourceful survivors. When they notice signs of the impending storm, Timothy’s resourcefulness enables him to try to protect them: “he took the remaining rope that we had and tied it securely around the same sturdy tree… I realized then why he had used our rope sparingly” (103). Timothy’s c...
Throughout the narrative, Ruby’s comings and goings are intimately connected to the storm outside. Specifically, the storm mirrors Ruby’s innermost thoughts and implies the cyclical nature of Ruby’s experi...
Every storm creeps upon us, hits a luminous climax, and then fades away into nothingness. We all experience thunder and lightening in our lives remaining “purified air”. It brings something rejuvenating and refreshing to our life. In the short story,”The Storm”, written by Kate Chapin on July 19, 1898 introduces us to Calixta who “coincidently” meets her old lover alone at home due to an upcoming storm and awakens old passions and desires.
The storm is the main metaphor in this story; it is seen as the lust that stomps through their lives like the storm rages through a single d...
I peered around through the rain, desperately searching for some shelter, I was drowning out here. The trouble was, I wasn’t in the best part of town, and in fact it was more than a little dodgy. I know this is my home turf but even I had to be careful. At least I seemed to be the only one out here on such an awful night. The rain was so powerfully loud I couldn’t hear should anyone try and creep up on me. I also couldn’t see very far with the rain so heavy and of course there were no street lights, they’d been broken long ago. The one place I knew I could safely enter was the church, so I dashed.
Tranquility fills the dull atmosphere. Not knowing how much water the clouds contain before the downpour starts, we innocently set ourselves up for an endless journey; a journey to find the purpose in life. A droplet of rain trickles down onto the top of your head, following a shower of many more droplets. Lightning flashes and booms of thunder take over the sky. Many are hesitant of whether to continue their journey or hide from this storm; an umbrella can only give so much protection against the rapid winds and stinging raindrops. Many describe thunderstorms in a frightening way, but the strong willed individuals who embrace the storm think with positivity - rain is changing the environment and bringing life to the world. Once the rain subsides, the atmosphere, exhausted and worn out, settles down back into the calm tranquil environment that it once was. The sky, once filled with dark and murky clouds, is filled with blue. One may either face the challenge they have been approached with to move on, or decline and stay caught in a storm. An individual’s view of the world has immense power of whether one’s obstacles will result in failure or achievement. It is the mentality that we approach life’s challenges that determine the positive or negative outcomes in our lives.
Halfway up it was beginning to look doubtful, the wind was picking up and everyone was getting out rain gear to prepare for the storm. I voiced my doubts to Phil and he said we might as well keep going until the lighting got too close. So we did. The thunder grew in volume and the echoes magnified the noise to a dull roar sometimes. Then suddenly it began to ebb. The wind died down and lightening came less frequently. I exchanged relieved looks with Phil after a bit, but kept the pace up--I didn’t want to take chances. Eventually it hit us, but by then it was nothing more then a heavy rain. We kept moving, if slower, and made it over the ridge with no other problems. That night I enjoyed the meal a little more and slept a little deeper realizing how much is important that easily goes unnoticed until something threatens to take it away.
One rainy day in Fort Plane, New York a little orphaned boy wanders the long dirt roads to find shelter. As he is trying to keep out of the puddles from getting his feet wet, a car whizzes on by and soaks the poor child from head to toe with the dirty rain water. “This cannot be more of an inopportune time,” he mutters to himself, “just because you are not in the rain running doesn’t mean you have to slash the people on the streets.” Finally coming up and seeing a large farm with a silo perfect for him to hid away from the storm.
I haven’t always lived in Michigan. Before I moved here in in fifth grade, I lived in Tennessee, Florida, and Wisconsin. Because I have lived in many different places, I have experienced and learned many different things in many ways. In Florida, I had a pool and was 15 minutes from the beach, and thus lived a life of carefree swimming and outdoor time. When I moved to Wisconsin there was a stark change in how my days played out. Gone were the times of carefree swimming and shorts year-round, and in came the days of snow-shoveling, learning how to put on a jacket and boots, and waiting for the knock on my door in the morning to tell me that school was cancelled because of snow - this meant I got a full day to spend sledding with my brother.
It was a cool and hazy summers night… all I remember is a hand sticking out the door and waving us off. As soon as I got set in the car the lights turned dimmed, and there was a jerk and we were off.
“Up North. It’s the place people go to escape, a place made of cabins, pine trees, and lakes. But no matter how far you drive, there’s no sign to say “you’ve arrived” so just follow your heart till you find… your special place that brings peace of mind. As you breathe in the air and unwind… your cares are all left behind. It’s no mystery where the northwoods start when you arrive up north, you’ll know in your heart.” -Suzanne Kindler. Coming from a fifth generation Wisconsinite, I have never seen a quote more true. When I think of where I was born and raised in Mauston, WI, I think of peaceful, sunny afternoons hanging out in the backyard or trail riding through the forest with my horse. It’s beautiful, most afternoons
The sky is overcast, with grey clouds all over. A cold icy rain is steadily falling – a drizzle in some parts, a torrent in others – on these people standing here. On rare occasions, the sun is victorious, in breaking through the cloud cover, and offering a brief respite. However the ominous dark clouds close in very quickly and shut off the sunlight, all too soon to restart their assault on the poor folks below. Some of these people are standing under the tress, thereby having a little protection from the incessant rain, but the majority of them are left out in the open, with only the unmerciful clouds and the heavens above them.
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
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