Sample Narrative/Descriptive Paragraph
When I was a child, I spent as much time outdoors as was
possible. During the summer months I wore shoes only to church. I
owned shoes; I just preferred not to wear them. As a lover of nature--the
creek that ran in front of my house, the pond where I caught brim, crappie, and
catfish, the cornfield where my sister and I had picnics of cold fried chicken,
deviled eggs, and sweet tea--I adopted several spots as my own. A
large flat rock served as my thinking rock, a special place where no one was permitted to bother me.
And on my mother's parents' property, I had a tree named Ole Pokey. Ole
Pokey was no ordinary tree. My mom could probably tell you the species.
I could not, but what was unique about Ole Pokey was that part of its root
system grew on top of the ground, allowing just enough room for three
children--my sister, my uncle John, and me to sit inside the old tree and watch
the world go by. I guess Ole Pokey was a tall tree. And I seem to
recall it having exceptionally dark bark. I don't remember as much about
how Ole Pokey looked as I do about my feelings for this secret getaway.
You see, I was the youngest of the three of us who spent endless days together
building volcanoes of creek clay and catching tadpoles, but I was the one who
claimed and named Ole Pokey. I specifically recall getting caught out in a
rainstorm one day. We didn't quite have time to make it to the house
without getting drenched, so we waited out the storm warm, safe, dry under
Ole Pokey. The rain washed away every care that might have plagued the thoughts
of a small child...a small child who sat securely against the legs of a gentle
giant, that is. Years later, Ole Pokey finally fell, weakened by its shallow root system.
I don't like to think about that. Thinking about it somehow makes the end
of my childhood that much more final.
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