Family Album: a Fraction of the Truth. The cover is weathered yet treasured, wrinkled and gray, smelling of must

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2 Descriptive ENGL /20/10 Final Draft, Critical Descriptive Essay Family Album: a Fraction of the Truth The cover is weathered yet treasured, wrinkled and gray, smelling of must and childhood afternoons rifling through the game chest; fuzzy corners of the faux leather make me chuckle in reminiscence of childhood ignorance concerning frailty. As a child, I often neglected the book of memories. The importance of the old photo album grew in time; children often abuse the past, thrive in the present, and are oblivious to the future. Now I realize how precious the pictures contained in the album are. Everything in the album is truth; some things never change. Flipping through the sectioned pages, the pictures of me as a three-year-old make me take a look at my current surroundings; my life has changed quite dramatically over 15 years. Out of high school and pitched into college, the Banfield dorms leave much to be desired. The squeaky leather couches share the smells of past patron s aromas; my senses paint a picture depicting an oily, acne faced, Banfield resident, whose accomplished the required freshman 15 and is heading on to bigger prospects, greasy pizza in hand. The imagination is a photo album in which you create the pictures; this one gets filed under the section called regret, wishing I d never thought of it. The couch is no longer a comforting place to reminisce but rather a festering obstacle that I convince myself to overcome.

3 Descriptive 3 The old gray album is titled carefully in my mother s hand writing, Shawna ; disorganized, this is not a scrap book, color coded and labeled. This is an album that no one foreign cares to know about. I m the only one who recognizes the significance of blurry shots of Dad s heroic smiles; only the photographer knows the truth. Sitting in the common living room of the dorm hall looking at old photographs, I feel out of place; sporadic placement of leather sofas mottling the purple carpet along with bulky coffee tables seems like an offensive distraction from the almost sacred album. I was anxious about bringing this photo album to college; no one will steal it, but I will suffer greatly if I return it to Mom soiled. Strangers walk through the commons and awkwardly down the staircase; I can see their shifty eyes through the chrome and crimson railings. When they look to check if I m still watching, awkward eye contact makes them uncomfortable, so they reach into their pockets to check their cell phones as result of a nervous habit. I asked a stranger what she thought one of the pictures in the album was and she replied, It looks like a person digging. Maybe a landslide? The picture was of my father digging the foundation of our house; he sported extra tuffs, brown Carhartts, a stained white shirt, and a pair of navy blue suspenders, and leaned casually on his shovel while wiping the sweat from his brow. He smelled like dirt and worked like an animal, but his love for me and my family only grew sweeter that year. No outsider really cares about the photos; they don t want the story although they eagerly supply false enthusiasm when it is told. I want them to know everything the way I do. For some reason, the album urges my desire to justify the facts of each picture. As I flip through the pages, I stop

4 Descriptive 4 at a specific photo; the picture shows a tight embrace and two toothy grins on a porch swing. My brother loved me so much. Nothing ever changes completely; he must love me a little, still, however much we fight and bicker. I want to wave the photo in his face and yell, remember when you loved me? Honestly, I don t remember ever loving him that much, but I must have; I probably still do. Truths are unchangeable; they are obstructed and covered, but with diligence they can always be found. Photos are a source of forgotten truths obstructed by time and other experiences; they are powerful in that they can refresh a memory and replenish an initiative to one s actions. The old gray album is a source to the dusty corners of my mind; it keeps the photos safe and bound in clear protective compartments awaiting my return. Shawna looking at memories my roommate said, passing through to the elevator. I m not sure if it was a question or an out-loud observation, but I turned, smiled, and replied with a yes. My friends only connections to the album are through me. The purpose, in their eyes, is not to remember good times or seek confirmation of something long ago but rather to compare my past to my present. They try to judge whether or not I have changed a significant amount. They notice clothing differences and facial similarities; they don t care about my old friends, aunts, or uncles. They do, however, care who is naked in the bathtub. Who are you? is a frequently asked question; to answer, I point to the little girl I once was. This is the truth; I haven t lost anything that the little girl in the pictures possessed, but I have gained so much more through the years. My identity as a three-year-old is a fraction of who I am today; however, it becomes a smaller

5 Descriptive 5 portion each and every second. Many people say time goes faster as we grow older, and to the individual this is true. To a three-year-old, three years is a lifetime; to an 18-year-old, three years is 1/6 of a life time. We are fractions of ourselves years from now, but no matter how many times you divide, the number will never be less than or equal to zero. There s a blank page in the center of the album; a separation between different times, they are empty slots that will never be filled. They are like a representation of the invisible changes that occurred between the ages of two and three. The distraction of the florescent lights dampens my spirits, and the squeaky air vent offends my mood as I think about those invisible changes that have occurred recently in my life; have I changed for the better? Traits that are apparent and noticed by others but are not necessarily seen represent me as a person; I seek improvement in those attributes of my life. Like a diary, the album has a key; in order to truly open it and receive it s gifts and treasures, you reflect the importance into the photos through past experiences. No outsider will understand the importance of it as I do. Every picture provides me with a web of memories like a safety-net to fall back on when times get hard. I want to make a preemptive action and ensure that I create enough memories to rely on getting me through my future. Although the photo album is old and frail, the truths that it contains within each picture are important and treasured in my family. Simple phrases inspired by the photos will trigger specific memories that will parallel the memories of everyone related to the subject or event. Pennies on the train tracks and Christmas

6 Descriptive 6 at Grandma s house bring back images and memories that are precious to me. The album is a reminder -- a reminder of good times, endearing moments, and people who will always be relevant to my life. Physically, it can be burned, lost, or faded, but the memories will last forever.

7 Descriptive 7 Student ID or Name English Section Descriptive, Revision 4 Lost and Found Have you ever found yourself when you weren t looking? One night I decided to head out for a walk, even though the rain was pouring down. I grabbed my heavy brown jacket so I would stay nice and toasty. It wasn t really water-proof, but it was long enough to keep most of me dry. I reached for my phone only to find the battery had a measly six percent remaining. I opted out of taking it; instead, I plugged it into the wall. I stepped toward the door, and I walked out into the pre-twilight night. Disconnecting myself from the world was definitely out of my norm and this was sure to be a night I wouldn t forget. The house I was living in at that time was just around the corner from Buggies Beach, so I decided to head there first. The street lights were a pale yellow, just barely illuminating the sidewalk. The night was already starting to get heavy, and there was no shining moon hanging in the dark blue sky. I could hear the ocean as I neared the stairs that led me down to the beach. At a constant, the ocean swayed back and forth while rolling up onto the rocky beach. Over and over the waves came, and I sat there watching them for what seemed like forever. From the other side of the endless water, I could see the tip of a bright light rising above the horizon. It was a silver sliver of a crescent moon. I stood and decided that the drop of the moon s light was enough for me to continue on. I found myself at another set of stairs and up onto the street I went. I walked on and on, the

8 Descriptive 8 moonlight guiding me. I found myself reaching a strong smell of burning cedar. I walked on past the rows of houses, each one with its own personality. One caught my eye, with its beautiful garden in the front. There were flowers, trees, and shrubs everywhere. Although they looked to have been placed sporadically, the plants looked connected, as if they were reaching out to each other. As I continued down the lane, I reached the last house and kept on past it. The road ended behind me, and soggy mud squished below my feet. I heard water again and headed for the sound. It was a small creek with slow moving water, and miniature waterfalls. The water slipped down the rocks and slid onto the next, continuing its slow journey toward the ocean. I walked along the shore against the flow of the water. I could barely smell the cedar anymore; it was as if the light scent flowed along with the water, away from me. Moving forward a new scent came down the stream. Suddenly rushing into me was the smell of a forest filled to the brink with pine. The smoky cedar was gone now, and all I could do was breathe in this strong new smell. It was as if the trees grew around me, as the light faded behind me. Like me the trees that I walked past were young and still finding their place in this world. They were unsure of who they were and what they wanted to accomplish, reminding me greatly of myself. Moving past them I found taller, stronger, more certain trees. Their age had been carved into them and they knew what they wanted, who they were. Even deeper into the woods, with darkness almost completely encompassing me, I found trees that stood proud. These pines knew more than I could learn in a million lifetimes. Each of the trees had a soul all its own. The proud old pines souls had been silently sitting here locked away in these trees, learning

9 Descriptive 9 and growing. They had suffered the times and trials, yet they still stood tall. Something I had seen many times before, but always took for granted. As I walked on, I heard cracking and crunching from behind me. I kept looking over my shoulder in fear that I was being followed, or maybe I was going to be attacked by some vicious animal. I walked in fear; in fact, I always walked in fear of the unknown. I was constantly worrying about everything that surrounded me. Suddenly, off in the distance a wolf howled to the thin moon. I rushed faster, moving quickly through the forest. I tripped over a large root and fell to my knees. A doe swiftly moved past me, moving so rapidly that her colors blurred together. Even though my adrenaline was still rushing, I was calmed knowing I was safe. Then, as quick as the noises had started, the forest fell silent again. I got to my feet and pulled myself together, moving on and leaving my fear behind me. Having the courage to continue on was something I usually would forego, but this time I didn t. Further through the forest I traveled, finding an opening with thousands of colors pouring through. I pushed my way out past the shrubs that bordered the tree line, out onto a ridge overlooking a vast lake. Above me, against the twilight sky, were brilliant colors moving against the black backdrop of space. They rolled and turned above me, falling and jumping through the darkness. This was the first time I had ever seen the auroras. I felt a warmth building up inside me, and it pushed its way through me. The first tear rolled down my cheek, and then another as I fell to the ground. I wrapped my arms around myself as I began to cry. I was so moved by the beauty, so swelled to the brink of bursting with emotions, I felt changed. I felt as though the universe had sent a message to me. The universe was telling me to tear down my wall and stop hiding. The night was

10 Descriptive 10 screaming for me to listen, and finally my tree had grown taller. I had finally found myself, newly filled with the beauty that this world holds. With what I had experienced, I had grown taller, stronger, and wiser like the pine trees I could now stand the trials of time.