personal narrative

The races started off intense and every race had at least one wreck. After a long day, we were driving home. Exhausted, I had just dozed off on my mom’s shoulder when out of nowhere on Highway 83, we swerved off the road to avoid getting hit head-on by a drunk driver. Sliding every which way through the ditch, we hit a school bus sign; only feet away from guard rail. Thanks to my dad’s retired dirt track racing skills and someone watching over us, everyone in that car is alive today.

I soon met the three other people who were riding with John and me and then settled into my seat for the long bus ride to Liberty, Missouri where we would be attending the Farmland Youth Leadership Conference. The five of us were basically on our own. It was just us and the bus driver, who couldn't speak very much English. We had a lot of stops along the way to pick up other students attending the conference so we plugged in a movie and turned on the zone mode that would get us through the twelve-hour drive. After only one minor delay of our bus breaking down just outside of Denver, we had successfully picked up all of the attendees from Colorado.

At first he is angry with her for climbing around the bus and driving at the age of thirteen, but when Sal tells him her story confidently, and then he drives her to her mother 's grave, which is on a hill overlooking the river. Sal sits down to drink in all the details of this spot and, to her joy, finds a nearby "singing tree," a tree with a songbird living in its highest branches. Only then she leaves, knowing that, in a way, her mother is alive in this

Yummy! Finally you pack the whole family into the car and head to the state fair! As you drive down that old dirt path your mind is overwhelmed with the past memories of the fair, like the salt water taffy, the freshly popped kettle corn, or the time you almost puked. As the fairs wheel spins round and round the people chatter, little boys squabble, and the corndogs boil. Now when you come not only does is feel welcoming but like home.

It was February in the year 1991 when I had my experience with a ghost. I was 17 years old at the time. One Saturday evening in Phoenix, my high school was having a basketball game, and afterward my cousin and I left the school gymnasium at around 10 p.m. My cousin is from Tohono O’dham, and I was going to spend the weekend with my aunt’s family. Like myself, my aunt is Yaqui. She married a Tohono O’dham man some years ago and had two kids.

A woman is in the car, whose name is Rita. She drives them to a cabin about two hours away. When they arrive, the kids are fed stew. The boys were sent... ... middle of paper ... ...ased the brakes until coming to a complete stop. Juan and Glenn, knowing where they were going, went to the door leaving the dad alone to get the money.

The bustling city is overcast, it’s windy and grey, but the rev of the car’s engine racing out of the city limits seems to coincide with the brightness and the liveliness that grows the further you escape it. Hours fly by and the road begins to rise and wind as the clouds thin. When my ears begin to pop I know I’m nearing my destination. I roll down my window, gazing at the trees as they fly by, and the crisp air wakens me as the fresh pine overcomes and relaxes my every being. The long road to my parent’s house goes on for miles, but a small post in the ground marks the dirt driveway the rises up onto the property.

On the freeway Amanda and her family saw some pretty strange things such as a voltzwagon with eyelashes over the headlights and dogs with there heads out the window with there tounge out and slobber flowing out hitting car windows as if it was a waterfall pouring and pouring out slobber. As they got of the freeway and got on to exit 63 they found the car sputtering out midnight black smoke. “Oh great what could that be?” Amanda’s mom asked. “It’s probalbly the new tires wearing in” Amanda’s dad replies. As they pulled up to the man wearing his work outfit in the tiny, tiny ticket booth Amanda’s mom struggled to find the ridiculous fee of eight dollars to park in her jungle ... ... middle of paper ... ... voice that sounded very, very sleepy.

With music blasting, voices singing and talking, it was another typical ride to school with my sister. Because of our belated departure, I went fast, too fast. We started down the first road to our destination. This road is about three miles long and filled with little hills. As we broke the top of one of the small, blind hills in the middle of the right lane was a dead deer.

Vans are depicted as “mom vehicles” and trucks are “dad or man vehicles.” When a vehicle manufacturer comes out with a new model of van they usually depict a women driving around, with a vehicle full of kids. She drops the kids off and picks them up, she then proceeds to move around all of the seats illustrating to the consumer all that this new van has to offer. It is all work and no play for moms in the working world. When a new model of the Ford F150 or the Chevy Silverado comes out, advertisements usually depict a man four-wheeling through the hills demonstrating the durability and power of the vehicle. Ford’s motto is “Built Ford Tough” and Chevy’s motto is “Like a Rock.” Thes...