Camping is a family tradition. Each day starts with the rise of the sun and the smell of pancakes floating through the campground. My Dad makes pancakes for his grandkids and great grandkids. The generations have grown and merged through the years. As the day goes on the adults find a quite place to read a book or gather around the puzzle that must be done before we pack at the end of the week. The children play on the cement area by Grandma and Grandpa’s motor home. They build great things with foam squares. They build a tube to crawl through that soon becomes a house, so small they can only stand up in it. They come from two different generations. They came into this family in different ways. Two are my nephews. One of them was born to my sister, one adopted by my brother. The girls are my oldest nephew’s children. The other is my step-nephew’s child. But it doesn’t matter how you get into the family. Dinner is just about over and homemade ice cream and root beer is the perfect family tradition with which to end the day. The sun sets and the campfire roars. The children have been washed. Some hiked to the showers with Mom or Dad. The littler ones bathed in a bucket. At the end of the night four generations of family gather around the campfire. The children climb into laps. It doesn’t matter whose. They might choose Mom or Dad. Some want a Grandma or Grandpa. Some chose an Aunt or Uncle. And one chooses mine and utters the words “I love you, Aunt Liz” before curling up and falling asleep. Camping is a family tradition. And family is everything.Monday, October 12, 2009
English Photo Essay
Years ago I had to write an essay for an english class about a photo. I picked this photo. The essay follows.
Camping is a family tradition. Each day starts with the rise of the sun and the smell of pancakes floating through the campground. My Dad makes pancakes for his grandkids and great grandkids. The generations have grown and merged through the years. As the day goes on the adults find a quite place to read a book or gather around the puzzle that must be done before we pack at the end of the week. The children play on the cement area by Grandma and Grandpa’s motor home. They build great things with foam squares. They build a tube to crawl through that soon becomes a house, so small they can only stand up in it. They come from two different generations. They came into this family in different ways. Two are my nephews. One of them was born to my sister, one adopted by my brother. The girls are my oldest nephew’s children. The other is my step-nephew’s child. But it doesn’t matter how you get into the family. Dinner is just about over and homemade ice cream and root beer is the perfect family tradition with which to end the day. The sun sets and the campfire roars. The children have been washed. Some hiked to the showers with Mom or Dad. The littler ones bathed in a bucket. At the end of the night four generations of family gather around the campfire. The children climb into laps. It doesn’t matter whose. They might choose Mom or Dad. Some want a Grandma or Grandpa. Some chose an Aunt or Uncle. And one chooses mine and utters the words “I love you, Aunt Liz” before curling up and falling asleep. Camping is a family tradition. And family is everything.
Camping is a family tradition. Each day starts with the rise of the sun and the smell of pancakes floating through the campground. My Dad makes pancakes for his grandkids and great grandkids. The generations have grown and merged through the years. As the day goes on the adults find a quite place to read a book or gather around the puzzle that must be done before we pack at the end of the week. The children play on the cement area by Grandma and Grandpa’s motor home. They build great things with foam squares. They build a tube to crawl through that soon becomes a house, so small they can only stand up in it. They come from two different generations. They came into this family in different ways. Two are my nephews. One of them was born to my sister, one adopted by my brother. The girls are my oldest nephew’s children. The other is my step-nephew’s child. But it doesn’t matter how you get into the family. Dinner is just about over and homemade ice cream and root beer is the perfect family tradition with which to end the day. The sun sets and the campfire roars. The children have been washed. Some hiked to the showers with Mom or Dad. The littler ones bathed in a bucket. At the end of the night four generations of family gather around the campfire. The children climb into laps. It doesn’t matter whose. They might choose Mom or Dad. Some want a Grandma or Grandpa. Some chose an Aunt or Uncle. And one chooses mine and utters the words “I love you, Aunt Liz” before curling up and falling asleep. Camping is a family tradition. And family is everything.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment