NARRATIVE ESSAY

There Is No Place Like Home Essay

Every person has a place which he treats differently than any other, the place where he feels
more comfortable than anywhere else. It is not exactly the place where the person lives – it may be
some house or flat from the past, for example, the one he or she lived during childhood in. But what
is so specific about it that it plays such an important role in the culture of many nations of the world?

I think it is because a person’s home serves as the best reflection of a personality on the outside
world. It is true even if someone doesn’t spend most of their time at home; at least they spend it
there regularly. Also, it could even be more true than when one can say a lot about a person judging
by his clothes, the works of art he likes, the pets he keeps.

One cannot live somewhere for years without leaving a kind of trail, a kind of residue of oneself. You
can judge about the majority of people simply looking at the way they decorate – or, speaking about
it, do not decorate – the place where they are living. Also, I want to mention here the effect of the
way things are arranged, whether the place is kept in apple-pie order or not, whether there are these
little personal things that say so much about the interests and affections of the owner, and so on.
The person undoubtedly influences the place of living, which is clearly understood because even if
a house is fully furnished but uninhabited, one will immediately feel it upon entering. Eventually,
the longer a man lives somewhere, the more his home reminds of him when you look at it. It
probably won’t give you too much useful information, but still may be helpful in terms of overall
impression.

I believe that not only the consciousness determines being, but being also determines
consciousness. For example, a man that got into unfamiliar surroundings that do not correspond to
his personality and cannot be changed is very often somewhat altered by such a situation, although
not completely. And this fact only proves once more the interconnectedness of the person and his
place of living. They both influence each other and the extent of this influence is unique for every
particular case.

Historically, the concept of home has a very important position in some cultures. Englishmen, for
example, are particularly attached to their homes; a famous proverb “My house is my fortress”
originates in England and in the beginning had quite a direct foundation – a person couldn’t even
have been arrested in his own house. Even now there is hardly any place where a person may feel
more secure and protected from the dangers of the outer world.
A Place Where I Would Like to Live

I like the saying: “The grass is always greener on the other side.” To me, it means we
tend to believe life in places different from our residence is for some reason better.
Considering this, I have tried to be content with the place I resided in throughout my life:
a regular city in the center of the United States. However, due to various circumstances
that would take too much time to describe here, I started to think about changing my life
and moving to another area. And, to start with, I attempted to figure out where I wanted
to live, in all sincerity.

While living in a city, I discovered that perhaps the most irritating factor for me was the
rush and the amounts of unnecessary information I encountered. Every morning, I
witnessed crowds of people hurrying, having quick snacks while leaping from one office
to another, glancing at their watches frantically. Every day, I was seeing placards,
billboards, TV commercials, and advertising products I had completely no need for.
There was no escape from it, because commercials were seemingly everywhere: in
search engines, in my mailbox, in YouTube clips, in every printed or electronic material.
Whenever I browsed on the Internet for information on topics of interest, I had to wade
through tons of informational garbage.

“The place I choose to live will be calm and won’t cause me stress,” I said to myself,
and kept on thinking.

From my early childhood, I loved mountains. When I was taken to the Yellowstone
National Park by my parents for the first time, I was literally shocked by the greatness of
nature and the amazing feeling of freedom and height. Since that time, I kept on visiting
Yellowstone annually; I have also traveled to several mountainous regions of the U.S.
and Europe. Every time I was walking up or standing on the top of a mountain, I
wondered: do people living in such places have the same problems as city dwellers?
Can a person who can witness the enormous misty mountain silhouettes in their window
each morning really be miserable and petty?

“Mountains—that is where I need to live,” I said to myself, and kept on looking with my
intuition.
I was making my decision for a couple more months. During this period, I made solid
efforts to recall the most pleasant memories about places I have been to, and to realize
my needs concerning a way of life, occupation, communication, geographical location,
and so on. I would stop on a certain variant as the final one, and the next day I would
reconsider it. Among the places I thought of were Italy, Norway, Peru, and even exotic
countries for a westerner to live in, such as China and Nepal. But, after a period of
intense consideration, I had finally stopped searching and chose Scotland—
Aberdeenshire, in particular. It looked exactly like what I needed: mountainous region,
nice people, suitable climate (well, suitable for me, since Scottish climate is rather
fickle), the English language being spoken, and both modern civilization and countless
opportunities for seclusion and resort.

“Well, seems like I’ve found a perfect place for myself to live,” I said to myself, and
started to arrange the formalities. But that is a completely different story.

If I Could Go Back in Time

One of the most popular topics in the history of science-fiction has been the idea
of time travel. In literature and cinema, this topic has been exploited uncountable
times. We know and love such works as H.G. Wells’ “Time Machine”; H.P. Lovecraft’s
“The Shadow Out of Time”; Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder”; King’s “The Langoliers”;
as well as numerous films and TV shows: “Back to the Future,” “Butterfly Effect,” and
“Timecop.” These, as well as many others are dedicated mostly to one question:
how can an individual affect or even change his or her entire life in the present by
making even slight corrections in his or her own past? In my opinion, this is one of
the most common, natural, and essential questions.

When I was a child, I often dreamed about a special pocket device that would allow me
to “save” certain moments of my life, so that in case I failed to do something, I could
always “load” my life from a checkpoint, already possessing a certain level of
experience—exactly how they do it in video games. I imagined the things I could do if I
had such power: jumping from skyscrapers without a parachute (and “loading” in the
last second); traveling across savannas, jungles, and deserts; racing and performing
other risky occupations. I especially liked to think about saving people from desperate
and dangerous situations when others could not help; I guess every boy dreams of
being a superhero, and I was no exception.
As I grew older, my life experience gradually became more diverse. In many situations, I
had no idea how to act properly, what decisions to make, what path to follow; naturally, I
made mistakes. While many of my actions back then turned out for the good in the
future, some mistakes provided for many painful moments for me and people around
me. Mistakes are inevitable, but they allow us to learn, develop ourselves, and motivate
us to change for the better—and still sometimes I would like to leap into a time machine,
go back a couple of years ago, and make corrections.

Would I try to make other people act in a different way? I think no. I would rather
warn myself about the awaiting consequences of my most reckless decisions. I
would talk to a long-haired teen holding his first cigarette and tell him: “Don’t do that—
years will pass until you finally manage to quit.” Or: “Man, don’t go there—you don’t
need to see what is going on in that place tonight.” “Whoa! Don’t drive so fast, pal!”
Perhaps, one of the most important warnings would be: “Don’t push her away now—you
could be happy together.” So many warnings I would give to myself that sometimes I
think: was it really me who did this and that?

Having a time machine is an amazingly attractive idea. It seems having one would make
life so much easier! Perhaps, it is true. But what I think more often now is that living
without this aggregate teaches us responsibility. This is perhaps the most important
responsibility: about oneself, about important people to us, about one’s own life, which
is the only one we have. And besides, our mistakes make us what we are
today. Today I am a person leading a healthy, active lifestyle; I care about my friends
and family; I think about my share of responsibility in everything that is going on in my
life; I try to live each day at the maximum in order to regret nothing.

If I could go back in time, I would try to make my future better. This is what our parents
always try to do when we are children. But you know what? I am glad that no time
machine has been invented.
My College Education

The first class I went to in college was philosophy, and it changed my life forever. Our
first assignment was to write a short response paper to the Albert Camus essay “The
Myth of Sisyphus.” I was extremely nervous about the assignment as well as college.
However, through all the confusion in philosophy class, many of my questions about life
were answered.

I entered college intending to earn a degree in engineering. I always liked the way
mathematics had right and wrong answers. I understood the logic and was very good at
it. So when I received my first philosophy assignment that asked me to write my
interpretation of the Camus essay, I was instantly confused. What is the right way to do
this assignment, I wondered? I was nervous about writing an incorrect interpretation and
did not want to get my first assignment wrong. Even more troubling was that the
professor refused to give us any guidelines on what he was looking for; he gave us total
freedom. He simply said, “I want to see what you come up with.”

Full of anxiety, I first set out to read Camus’s essay several times to make sure I really
knew what was it was about. I did my best to take careful notes. Yet even after I took all
these notes and knew the essay inside and out, I still did not know the right answer.
What was my interpretation? I could think of a million different ways to interpret the
essay, but which one was my professor looking for? In math class, I was used to
examples and explanations of solutions. This assignment gave me nothing; I was
completely on my own to come up with my individual interpretation.

Next, when I sat down to write, the words just did not come to me. My notes and ideas
were all present, but the words were lost. I decided to try every prewriting strategy I
could find. I brainstormed, made idea maps, and even wrote an outline. Eventually, after
a lot of stress, my ideas became more organized and the words fell on the page. I had
my interpretation of “The Myth of Sisyphus,” and I had my main reasons for interpreting
the essay. I remember being unsure of myself, wondering if what I was saying made
sense, or if I was even on the right track. Through all the uncertainty, I continued writing
the best I could. I finished the conclusion paragraph, had my spouse proofread it for
errors, and turned it in the next day simply hoping for the best.

Then, a week or two later, came judgment day. The professor gave our papers back to
us with grades and comments. I remember feeling simultaneously afraid and eager to
get the paper back in my hands. It turned out, however, that I had nothing to worry
about. The professor gave me an A on the paper, and his notes suggested that I wrote
an effective essay overall. He wrote that my reading of the essay was very original and
that my thoughts were well organized. My relief and newfound confidence upon reading
his comments could not be overstated.

What I learned through this process extended well beyond how to write a college paper.
I learned to be open to new challenges. I never expected to enjoy a philosophy class
and always expected to be a math and science person. This class and assignment,
however, gave me the self-confidence, critical-thinking skills, and courage to try a new
career path. I left engineering and went on to study law and eventually became a
lawyer. More important, that class and paper helped me understand education
differently. Instead of seeing college as a direct stepping stone to a career, I learned to
see college as a place to first learn and then seek a career or enhance an existing
career. By giving me the space to express my own interpretation and to argue for my
own values, my philosophy class taught me the importance of education for education’s
sake. That realization continues to pay dividends every day.

Life-Long Best Friends

In blistering Nebraska, it was America’s Independence Day. As usual on every
Independence Day since I was five years old, George and Terry, my two best friends,
and I, went on a manly picnic. I diligently carried out my household chores, packed
my picnic bag and off I went to collect my friends by way of bicycle. It is going to be
an awesome day, I thought to myself as I sped down my neighborhood street on my
beat-up blue Schwinn.

George and I were born on the same day, March 14th, 1984. His father and my
father were best friends from their days at King James High School. Their story is
much like an old-fashioned novel or film about two lifelong best friends. They joined
the U.S. Marines and both got married the same year. Intriguingly, they had their
firstborns in the same year as well. As fate would have it, George and I became close
friends. I did not have a sibling, and George became a sort of twin brother to me. We
saw each other almost daily, involving ourselves in our selfsame talent: soccer. We
both enjoyed defending against oncoming strikers—standing against the opposition
with a tough tooth. Besides these similarities, George had a large heart and would go
out of his way to help me in situations that called for aid.

Most years, we held our Independence Day picnic by the Sequin River’s calm sound
and sight. It was three quarters of a mile west of my apartment. As the three of us
rode noisily past plain suburban houses on our bicycles, mostly due to the rickety
nature of our mechanical companions, fireworks exploded loudly in the clear sky
behind us.

By the river, we played soccer on the bumpy grass field, swam and caught a fish—a
tiny and bony catfish. After having a late lunch of mixed berries, roasted chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy, we sat down on the cushion-like grass surrounding the
river and talked and laughed loudly at boyish jokes. Then out of the blue, George
glared at me.
“Promise we will always be best friends; that we will be exactly like our dads?” he
earnestly pleaded with me. I cannot explain why, but a chill rushed down my spine. I
had never seen George that serious before.

“I promise,” I mumbled, barely audible.

It was almost dark and we had to blitz home so that our parents wouldn’t get worried.
Terry’s residence was the nearest to the river. He shouted goodnight as he shot into
the rubble-like parking lot of his residence. We continued down shadowy Harrison
Street. Next was George to leave the group.

“Remember your promise!” he shouted as we turned to enter his family’s compound

down an opposing street.

Those words haunt me to this day. Out of nowhere, a yellow Mustang rambled
around the corner and headed straight for us.

“George!” I cried out as I swerved to avoid the oncoming car.

I heard the skidding of tires and a loud dinging sound. I was in a daze. People were
screaming and running towards where the car had stopped. I had passed out. When I
came to, I saw George’s mother holding a bloody, limp body, weeping hysterically.
The reality of the situation hit me like a thunderbolt. Inexplicably, my legs became
weak. The sky above started spinning wildly. I felt like a massive wind had lifted me
up; I was swimming in the air. Then the wind ceased and I fell down with a thud.
When I regained consciousness again, I was in my bed. Mum was sitting beside me,
and I could see she had been crying.

“Why him?” I asked her. She just cried, and I cried too.

The death of my best friend made me sullen, bitter, and inconsolable. How could God
take him away so soon? There were so many unscrupulous people around, but God
chose to take George. Life was never going to be the same again without him. A
million friends could never replace him, or even one million angels, I thought. Then
one evening, I was sitting with my mother after some tea, and I asked her, “Mum,
does God love us? If He does, why does He hurt us?” With loving, teary eyes she
peered into my eyes and said, “God loves us so much, son. He takes the righteous
when they are still young, before the world can hurt them, and makes them angels.”

I feel George next to me, following whichever path I choose. He was the most faithful
of friends—he is my angel now.
DESCRIPTIVE ESSAY

What Have We Become?

We have become much different than what we were considered before by history. By
“we” I mean humankind, and by “today” I mean the year 2184. I am writing this for the
descendants; I am not an idealist and do not build shiny illusions for myself, but
perhaps they will find another way of development and evolution than we had.
Perhaps they will manage to regain the essence of being human.

What is life like in the 22nd century? Well, it is unquestionably different than even a
hundred years ago. The main driving force of the present time is technology;
technological wonders have become so diverse and incredible that some people
already treat them the same way as our ancestors treated magic. They even worship
technologies. Every major city of the most advanced countries, such as China and
Saudi Arabia, now have a temple where adepts can unite with the Machine Soul. But
let me get back to the subject. Three phenomenons define our lives today: space
flights, cybernetics, and immortality.

One of the most significant issues—the overpopulation of Earth—was solved when

space flights became a common practice. I do not know the technicalities, but when
scientists finally discovered anti-matter in 2067 and learned to use it for practical
purposes, it took governments much less money and effort to initiate space programs
and launch spacecrafts to the Moon and Mars. Today, the Moon is almost as
overpopulated as Earth was in the beginning of the previous century; as for Mars, a
23rd colony was settled on its surface a couple of months ago.

Cybernetics is an another pillar of modern civilization. Since the first cybernetic

implants were released on the global market in 2098, it has become a great help for
disabled people, as well as for those who want to enhance their natural capabilities
with special implants. Terminal diseases are no longer a threat; only mental disorders
remain a serious problem. Today, you cannot imagine a cop without cybernatically-
strengthened limbs, or a stockbroker without brain implants helping him or her
process complex calculations in no time. And though in the middle of the 21st
century, there were prognoses about the development of robotics, today, as people
have become much more efficient, no one thinks about robots.

In addition, cybernetics gave people a possibility to resurrect after death. Yes,

humanity has completely overcome death. It occurred in 2131, when academician
Kurt Liebknecht, who is now considered a saint, had discovered a way to store
human minds on hard disks. Each human being today literally works for their
immortality throughout their lifetimes. If you manage to save enough money, you can
transfer your mind onto the Internet, and exist online in the form of pure information.
IT specialists and scientists have invented special, secure Necropolises for such
people—virtual places where the Immortals reside. Those who would like to resurrect
in their physical bodies once again can “work”: do system administering, manage
databases, provide online security (IP, Internet Police), and so on. For their job, they
earn virtual money—the virtual economy has become as developed and significant
as the real one—and buy themselves cybernetic bodies, in which their minds are
transplanted back from online. Well, Immortals are not truly immortal; we all
remember the horrible tragedy in 2152, when three of the largest servers containing
Necropolises were hacked and reformatted by the terrorists from Humanity-1—at
least, it was the official version. Hundreds of thousands of Immortals back then had
vanished forever—my brother was among them.

The invention of an online afterlife has also solved the problem of prisons: criminal
minds are now being locked in special virtual storage, and their physical bodies are
used for organ transplants for the living, or utilized in other ways. Though, a new
problem had arisen: escaped convicts pose a threat both for the Immortals in the
virtual world and for systems and people in real life. When a living criminal connects
to the Internet through a brain chip, such criminals, usually called Incubuses, can
possess them, capturing their bodies and expelling, or even destroying their minds.
And though a large number of security programs are now available for Internet users,
and though the IP constantly hunts and deciphers (or destroys, simply saying) loose
criminals, Incubuses remain a serious threat.

Technological wonders we take for granted today are much more diverse and
numerous than I have described so far. The Epoch of the Machine Soul is an exciting
time to live in. The only question that worries or even scares me and many other
conscious and intelligent people today, is: “Are we still human? What are we now?”
The Good Old Truck
My dad bought his red Dodge Dakota truck in 1995. When he got the truck it had already hit a deer and two
cows. Since he has owned it, its value has gone down considerably, even though he has spent more money
fixing it than he paid for it. If it was worth as much money as it has cost to keep it running we could sell it and
buy a new car. It is red with a stripe down one side– yes, only one side, the other side has no stripe, I have no
idea why this is. There is also a huge dent above the right hind wheel that occurred when a horse tried to jump
in the back of the truck. The new, improved, revamped bumper is bent slightly down from the deer and other
things that it has hit.

The back of the truck is mostly full of my dad’s horse shoeing stuff. It is in no way neat or in any kind of
arrangement. There are always empty horseshoe boxes piled to the brim. Underneath the boxes, balls of twine
are entangled in old non-usable horseshoes.

If you get inside of the truck, you enter a whole different place than the outside world. Notice that I said if you
get in; what I mean by this is you can’t get in through the passenger side unless someone opens it from the
inside. The driver’s side door doesn’t open all of the time, and when it does you can’t possibly slam it hard
enough to get it to shut all of the way. Most of the time the passenger side is overheaped with trash, mostly
empty pop bottles and cans.

Inside it usually smells like horses. My dad shoes horses for a living, so the smell is on him and then is
transferred to the seats and anything else that he touches. Also, he keeps his apron in the cab of the truck and it
definitely smells like horses. Once in a while when I get in, I get a sniff of a mixture of vinegar and dust. The
smell of vinegar comes from the homemade fly spray that my dad makes, and the smell of dust is from all of
the dirt that is that has gathered in the corners on the dash.

Once I finally get past the aroma of the truck I proceed to turn the key and hope it will start. Most of the time
when I turn the key it does nothing more than click. My dad warned me about this and instructed to me that if I
kept on trying it would eventually start. So I proceed to give it a few more turns until it finally starts. Once it
has started I don’t get my hopes up, because within about five to ten seconds it usually sputters, revs up, and
dies. So then I have to attempt the starting process again. It usually takes at least two tries before it will stays
running.

The fun part begins when you actually drive the “rust bucket,” as my little brother calls it. The manual on the
truck explains that you are supposed to shift between 2500 and 3000 Rpm’s. This is impossible if you want to
go over 30 miles per hour. I get up to about 4000 Rpm’s before I start to think about shifting. It seems like
there needs to be another gear between third and fourth. When I shift to fourth the revolutions per minute drop
from 4000 to 1000 and I end up losing speed instead of gaining speed. When I am able to shift into fourth–
when I am going downhill–there might as well not be any more gears. Fifth gear is nearly impossible to use.
Every once in a while I accidentally shift into fifth gear. I’m quickly reminded that that is not a good idea
when I’m thrown into the steering wheel from the truck lurching and jolting forward and backward. I have to
leave for my destination 10 minutes earlier than I would normally leave when I have to drive the red truck.
Forty-five miles per hour is almost unattainable.

I usually try to avoid having to drive the old “rust bucket,” but every once in a while my parents leave it at the
school for me to drive home. I try to be the last one to leave just in case it dies on the way out. When I am
blessed with the opportunity to drive the dented, 1988, red Dodge Dakota, I appreciate not only better vehicles
but also more enjoyable places.
What Makes an Ideal Friend?
To say what an ideal friend is is not the easiest thing to do. Each person has his or
her own perception of what one would be. However, speaking generally, there are
certain attributes that most people deem characteristic of an ideal friend. Loyal,
trustworthy, open to show weakness, caring, reassuring, and inspiring are common
qualities that the majority of people attach to ideal friends.

Loyalty is a usual attribute given to ideal friends. According to Psychology Today,

“Loyalty is valued early on in all of our relationships, from the time we make our first
friendships. We need friends who won’t spill our secrets to others, gossip about us,
or allow others to criticize us” (“The 13 Essential Traits of Good Friends”). The worst
action between friends is double crossing one individual, or not keeping one’s word.

Also in the vein of loyalty, ideal friends are usually referred as being trustworthy. In a
statement by Psychology Today, they say that, “Trustworthiness is often the
“make or break” element in any interpersonal relationship. Any breach,
regardless of perceived magnitude, can devastate a
relationship. Trustworthiness is comprised of several components, including
honesty, dependability, and loyalty, and while each is important to successful
relationships, honesty and dependability have been identified as the most vital in the
realm of friendships” (“The 13 Essential Traits of Good Friends”). In light of this, a
ubiquitous pet peeve of friends is a lack of honesty, and this is at the heart of being
trustworthy.

In line with being honest is also the capacity to show one’s weaknesses. According to
the Book of Life, “The ideal friend doesn’t try to prove how robust and successful they
are; on the contrary, quite often they let us know awkward and potentially
embarrassing things about themselves. They show how much they trust us by
confessing failings and sorrows which would open them up to possible humiliation
from the world beyond. They offer us the gift of their vulnerability” (Cotton, Jess).
That openness is treasured, as to be close to an individual, one must be willing to
share his or her true feelings and states.

Caring is the essence of love, many say. In the words of ReachOut.com, “Friends will
come and go in your life, but more important than how long your friendships last is
your friends’ acceptance of you for who you are. A good friend walks the talk and
shows that they care by their actions – big and small” (“What Makes a Good
Friend?”). An ideal friend cares for your well-being over any issues that may arise
between you two.

A part of caring is being reassuring. According to The Book of Life, “They don’t just
flatter; they understand how easily we lose perspective, panic and underestimate our
own ability to cope. They know we’ve got zones of fragility that need to be treated
gently. Sometimes they get us to laugh at ourselves, when on our own we’d be
 inclined to self-pity or rage” (Cotton, Jess). Ideally, a friend will do his or her best to
lift your spirits when you are down.

Another part of being uplifting is the quality of being inspiring. As The Book of Life
says, “More often than it’s comfortable to admit, we don’t quite know what we think
until a proper friend gently asks us to expand on a thought, to explain why we’re
impressed by it and to find good answers to possible objections. They see the
potential in what we’re saying when we can’t” (Cotton, Jess). So, an ideal friend
allows us to expand on our ideas and for them to be greater than a momentary
thought.

There are more qualities that could be spoken about when talking about an ideal
friend. However, these are the most commonly mentioned. Being loyal, trustworthy,
open to displaying weaknesses, caring, reassuring, and inspiring are often stated as
attributes of an ideal friend.

My Favorite Place
Richmond Beach was my spiritual hangout in my childhood. It is a rocky beach in the
city of Richmond Beach, which can be accessed by a long downhill drive (by car or
bicycle) from the city of Edmonds. Or, as I did often, took the 30-minute walk from my
house to the calm waters through a tranquil stroll through the woods of Woodway. It
used to be a place inhabited by Native Americans, but now it is occupied by mostly
Caucasian people. However, a totem pole stands in tribute to the tribes that used to
call the beach home. It has a vast property, with a beach, a playground, two upper
lawns for the view and recreation, myriad “secret” trails along the clay hillsides, picnic
areas, and a square where people can walk around, take an outdoor rinse-shower
after a swim, and benches for the spectacular view.

With the sagebrush, chattering birds, train tracks, the croak of frogs, wind,
herons, various shells, a cave along the beach, and a fantastic view of the
Olympic Mountains, Richmond Beach is at once ordinary and extraordinary.
Being there brings you into another state, in which you want to introspect, be
calm, and be positive.

In high school, I was not a very social person. I did not have so many friends, and I
did not feel like I belonged in a group most of the time. But when I went to Richmond
Beach, these worries were left behind. It seemed like a mystical place to me, and in a
way, it still does.
I would walk to various places on the beach: a secret cave in the clay hills on the left,
the train tracks that lead all the way from Seattle to Chicago, the mass of sagebrush
where the melody of birds made for a serene scene, and of course the beach itself,
which was scattered with shells, tide pools, crabs, seals, driftwood, remnants of
parties, and more.

The passing trains always attracted me there as well. My first word was “choo choo,”
since the first three years of my life was near a train station in the Greenlake area of
Seattle. So, I had a calling towards trains since my birth. Walking the tracks, I would
meet interesting people, learn to know when trains were coming through the vibration
and singing of the rails, and would be immersed in a world with a forest on one side
and the Puget Sound and the other. This combination of forest and ocean was
enchanting, and captured my imagination.

I wrote many poems about this place, and have been continually inspired by the
atmosphere there. In fact, my poetry has developed largely at Richmond Beach. No
where else have I written so many poems—except perhaps on public transport. I
started writing lyrical and narrative poetry around 11 years of age, and have
continued since. For the past few years, I have been writing almost exclusively haiku.
A lot of my haiku is inspired by the nature of Richmond Beach, how I relate to it
spiritually, and by the people who used to occupy that land—as I feel a special
connection with Native Americans.

It seems that Richmond Beach is one of those places that no matter how bad you
feel, you will leave feeling soothed and renewed. It is like therapy just to walk around,
feel the ionic breeze of the Puget Sound, smell the seaweed and moisture, hear the
variety of birds singing, listen to the crashing of moderate waves, witness the
sailboats and other boats on the water, take in the Olympic mountains in all their
glory, see people enjoying themselves on the beach, the whistle and trucking of a
distant train, and feel the sand on the soles of your feet, melding into each other with
each step. It is a whole therapeutic package.

It will be hard to ever forget Richmond Beach. It is now intertwined in my poetry,

childhood, spiritual life, family life, romantic memories, and even the passing of my
father, whose ashes was spread there. So, whenever I visit Richmond Beach, all of
these elements rest in my mind and soul. There are other places that stir my
imagination and supply me with sentimental rushes, but Richmond Beach is at the
top of my list.
The Oak Tree
Looking back, I remember running through the long lush grass pretending we were at battle andtrying to take
cover. I would always find myself behind the old oak tree in our back yard. This was my favorite spot. The
thick trunk, like a bodyguard, protected me from the imaginary bullets that flew towards my body. I would
lean against the hard bark and for some reason it was comforting to have something sturdy to lean on. It was
dark brown, and every now and then a spider would nestle between the pieces of bark. Sometimes I would
touch the tree to peek around the corner and my fingers would be sticky. I could never quite figure out why
that was, but, nevertheless, I had the hardest time getting it off, a constant reminder of my tree.

When my brother and I weren’t at “battle,” I would lay beneath my oak tree and daydream. As I looked up I
could see millions of branches protecting me from everything above. At the end of each branch were hundreds
of more leaves that would gently catch the morning dew, and carefully allowed it to make its way to the grass.
It was like thousands of stars in the sky as the sun caught the drops and allowed them to sparkle so brightly.
This was my heaven, and as I lay there, I could feel the plush grass, like a snuggly old blanket, holding my
body gently against the ground.

Sometimes the grasshoppers would appear from around a blade of grass as if they were asking for approval to
jump on my blanket. Every so often a leaf would jump off its branch to greet me as I sat. It would float through
the air as light as feather and land softly on the grass. As the autumn drew near, it was like a rainstorm of
brown, yellow and red leaves, all falling to make way for the beautiful spring leaves.

When winter came the tree stood bare, unprotected and sad. Suddenly my favorite spot was stripped of its
innocence and baring the naked truth. But it never failed, as spring rolled around, the old oak tree lit up with
vibrant green leaves and reassured me that it was ready for my companionship once again.