Personal Narrative- Playground Memory :: Personal Narrative

Personal Narrative- Playground MemoryLooking tail end on a childhood filled with events and memories, I find it preferably difficult to pick on that leaves me with the fabled warm and fuzzy feelings. As the daughter of an Air Force Major, I had the pleasure of traveling crossways America in many moving trips. I have visited the senseless trees of the Sequoia National Forest, stood on the edge of the Grande Canyon and have jumped on the beds at Caesars Palace in Lake Tahoe. However, I have discovered that when reflecting on my childhood, it is not the trips that come to mind, instead there are flesh break through from everyday doings a deck of cards, a silver edge or an ice cream flavor. One memory that comes to mind belongs to a day of no particular importance. It was late in the fall in Merced, California on the playground of my old elementary school an befog day with the move up blowing strong. I stood on the blacktop, pulling my hoodie over my ears. The wind was causing miniature tornados we called them dirt devils, to swarm around me. I stood there, honoring the leaves kick up and then settle. My friends called me over to the wooden playground skirt by a sea of mulch chips. The bridge squeaked furiously to a lower place our weight. An unannounced game of tag started and we found ourselves weaving in and out of the wooden fortress and the trees that surrounded it. My shoe became untied and I took a time out to tie it with a method that no one uses here. We heard an adult voice it was time to go in. We lined up single file, supposedly in alphabetical order but no one ever does. I like that, I never liked being in the back. While waiting for everyone to line up, I looked up at the trees that line the walkway. Despite the time of year, I noticed tenuous flowers growing on the trees.