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Life traveling the oregon trail 1800's
Life traveling the oregon trail 1800's
Narrative of life on the oregon trail
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I felt a chill go through my body as I sat on the edge of the wagon. Nights were always chilly out here, and we didn’t have as many blankets as we did when we started the journey on the Oregon Trail. My smaller brother had thrown one of them in our fire in a fit of rage, and several others had gotten dragged off by a coyote in the middle of the night. That was fine with me. We needed all the space we could get in our cramped wagon. Fitting six people and their possessions on a wagon made for four was no easy task, and it resulted in an uncomfortable lack of privacy. Still, an extra blanket right now would have been nice. The wagon rumbled along steadily. There was an occasional jaunty bump, but the wagon kept going. The constancy was comforting in a way. The continuous grumble of the wagon helped me forget all that I had lost on the Oregon Trail. …show more content…
I knew it was my Ma. Her hands were always warm, no matter how cold it got. I shifted to the side and she sat next to me. I could tell she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her dark blue eyes accentuated the gray circles around them, but she still maintained that soothing smile that had lulled me to sleep for years. Even after seventeen years of me existing on this earth, my mother still took care of me tirelessly. She did the same with my other siblings, which was no easy task. The thought of my siblings drove the smile away from my face and I looked down at my dangling legs. We had started off with six people; Ma, Pa, my two little brothers, and me. However, my little brothers died of cholera two months after we left home. I could still remember how much agony they endured before they died. I shut my eyes hard as I can as if that would help me erase the horrible images I saw inside my head. Ma rubbed my arm comfortingly, grounding
I noticed a few graves of people whom have died of the disease cholera (Document C). Some campers may need to
Between 1840 and 1950, over fifty-three thousand people travelled the Oregon Trail. Native American exposure to diseases such as smallpox and diphtheria decimated the tribes, and that along with the encroachment of settlers on tribal lands, was the cause of much strife between Native Americans and the incoming Europeans. The Land Donation Law, a government land giveaway allotting three-hindred twenty acres to white males and six-hundred forty to married white couples, gave impetus to the western expansion and the American idea of "Manifest destiny." This promotion of migration and families also allowed America to strentghen its hold on Oregon, in the interests of displacing British claims.
The Oregon Trail was a very important aspect in the history of our country’s development. When Marcus and Narcissa Whitman made the first trip along the Oregon Trail, many Americans saw a window of opportunity. The Oregon Trail was the only practical way to pass through the Rockies. Pioneers crammed themselves into small wagons to try to make it to the unsettled land; however, 10% of these pioneers died on the way due to disease and accidents.
I looked around at everyone in the room and saw the sorrow in their eyes. My eyes first fell on my grandmother, usually the beacon of strength in our family. My grandmother looked as if she had been crying for a very long period of time. Her face looked more wrinkled than before underneath the wild, white hair atop her head. The face of this once youthful person now looked like a grape that had been dried in the sun to become a raisin. Her hair looked like it had not been brushed since the previous day as if created from high wispy clouds on a bright sunny day.
Since I did not know anyone else was my mother. According to my sister, we lived in our house alone, without any guardian guiding, or caring for my siblings and I. We ate our meals at my Aunt Gloria’s since we did not have any food at our own house. Moreover, It was a norm in El Salvador, the male to abuse their wives and children. Our cousins were our bullies; they saw their own mother abused by their alcoholic father. I asked my sister Yenis recently, “Why our cousins bullied us?” She said, “When you did not finish your meal, they would force you to finish your meal by smacking you.” When I was slightly older, I remembered I was standing on a ledge my grandfather build to prevent landslides. When I was standing on the ledge, I was thinking about how tall the ledge was, I looked to my right at my cousin when he pushed me, forcing me to fall down to the bottom of the ledge. I remember going in and out of consciousness. My grandfather picked me up from the ground and brought me inside my grandmother’s house. During the time, my grandmother clamored at my cousin, Yessica, to get warm water and rags. I remember feeling the warmth of the blood dripping down the back of my head. My grandparents did not take me to the hospital with the limitations they possessed. As a neglected parentless child I became withdrawn and
The ride home had been the most excruciating car ride of my life. Grasping this all new information, coping with grief and guilt had been extremely grueling. As my stepfather brought my sister and I home, nothing was to be said, no words were leaving my mouth.Our different home, we all limped our ways to our beds, and cried ourselves to sleep with nothing but silence remaining. Death had surprised me once
As I walked into the family room, I could feel the gentle heat of the crackling fire begin to sooth my frostbitten cheeks. I plopped myself down on the sofa. The soft cushions felt like heaven to my muscles, sore from building snowmen, riding sleds, and throwing snowballs from behind the impenetrable fort.
I can still remember that small enclosed, claustrophobic room containing two armed chairs and an old, brown, paisley print couch my dad and I were sitting on when he told me. “The doctors said there was little to no chance that your mother is going to make it through this surgery.” Distressed, I didn’t know what to think; I could hardly comprehend those words. And now I was supposed to just say goodbye? As I exited that small room, my father directed me down the hospital hallway where I saw my mother in the hospital bed. She was unconscious with tubes entering her throat and nose keeping her alive. I embraced her immobile body for what felt like forever and told her “I love you” for what I believed was the last time. I thought of how horrific it was seeing my mother that way, how close we were, how my life was going to be without her, and how my little sisters were clueless about what was going on. After saying my farewells, I was brought downstairs to the hospital’s coffee shop where a million things were running
During the last moments of my mother’s life she was surrounded by loved ones, as she slowly slipped away into the morning with grace and peace.
There 's a first time for everyone and this one just so happened to be my first canoe trip. Being pushed off the small bank covered in seashells, and grasping the paddle firmly in my hand held a new sensation for me, especially after realizing my feet were indeed not on land, but firmly placed to stabilize our canoe. The sound of the cars overhead from the bridge did not escape me as we paddled under through the man made canal. The sound of engines dominated the vicinity and added to the noise pollution that irritated the environment. Hollow remnants of cypress trees stand tall on both sides of the wooden swamp bank. The sounds and the sights overloaded my senses at times. Once I got distracted and our canoe veered off center and toward the banks. My partner and I crashed into a few trees here and there and picked up a few stowaways; a
She left her house with a radiant smile and that same smile continued as I watched her open the door to the car with my father firmly entrenched in the driver's seat. They were on their way to buy a tire for her car which so happened to be three miles from our home. Time crawled along at snails pace and eventually my brothers and myself wondered where my father and godmother were. Within an instant my mother screamed for me and I ran to her as if my life depended on it. Instead my life was not in the balance it was my godmother who had lost hers. Instantly shattered and numb I was afraid to ask the next question but my mother eased my ...
As I walked in to their bedroom, I found my mother sitting on the bed, weeping quietly, while my father lay on the bed in a near unconscious state. This sight shocked me, I had seen my father sick before, but by the reaction of my mother and the deathly look on my father’s face I knew that something was seriously wrong.
Summer was coming to an end, the night air grew brisker and the mornings were dew covered. The sun had just started to set behind our home; my father would be home soon. I walked into the kitchen only to be greeted by my mother cooking dinner. She stood there one hand on her hip, her one leg stuck out at her side, knee slightly bent, stirring the pot holding the spoon all the way at the tip of the handle. She looked as pissed off as could be. My mother always felt she could be doing a million other things besides cooking dinner. We sat there talking until I heard a familiar soft rumble in front of our house. The rumble was accompanied by my father fidgeting at the front door. His old noisy Bronco always made his presence known. He plodded down the hallway into the kitchen to greet my mother with a peck on the cheek. After one more quick stir she plopped a hot pad on the table followed by a pan of sliced meatloaf in sauce. The smell of the meat, potatoes, and veggies filled the kitchen instantly and the family gathered around the table. The meal was a typical one in our household, my mother who had a million other things to do that day, including having her own personal time did not feel like cooking a twelve course meal. However, my father who always came home expecting steak did not see the meal as appetizing as the rest of us.
One of the most enjoyable things in life are road trips, particularly to the Colorado mountains. Getting to spend time with your family and friends, while being in a beautiful place, is irreplaceable. The fifteen-hour road trip may feel never-ending, but gazing at the mountains from afar makes life’s problems seem a little smaller and causes worries to become a thing of the past. Coming in contact with nature, untouched, is a surreal experience. My family trip to the Colorado mountains last summer was inspiring.
On the day my father died, I remember walking home from school with my cousin on a November fall day, feeling the falling leaves dropping off the trees, hitting my cold bare face. Walking into the house, I could feel the tension and knew that something had happened by the look on my grandmother’s face. As I started to head to the refrigerator, my mother told me to come, and she said that we were going to take a trip to the hospital.