Personal Narrative

Paul Larson
ACSC Writing
Lynn Moore
11/17/08
Personal Narrative

Growing up, my family would often attend family get-togethers and holidays on a gigantic dairy farm, or at least it seemed that way, in southeastern Minnesota. After three hours of long drives in my family’s maroon minivan, we would pull up through the valley, to grandma and grandpa’s country house. I remember mom always telling my sister and brothers to imagine that we were watching a movie, just so we could estimate how long we would have to wait for the next bathroom break. The winding roads and turns that eventually brought us made my stomach turn and my head spin, but I never was sick because I was too excited to arrive. I would anticipate all of the great food, and family bonding, which made the long drive worth all the while.

Coming up through the valley, the first sight our minivan would pass is a field, full of dairy cows—this is when my body was filled with the most anticipation, not only because of the food and bonding, but more so the chance to finally use a bathroom. Once we pulled in to the driveway, the scent from the cows was powerful. Fresh manure and silage might not have been great smells, but they were smells of a longing familiarity. If not for the smell, the sound from the farm let my family know we were at grandma and grandpa’s; cow bellows and moos, bobcats and tractors, and from the house joyous laughter.

After my business in the bathroom, I was determined to make my way outside. There was about an acre of green grass behind the garage where all of my cousins gathered. We played games such as football, baseball, and tag and sometimes we just sat around to talk. A heavenly yard was a dream for young kids to run around and chase each other. I especially enjoyed the free space, because my favorite game to play was football. This gathering area for my cousins was our “power spot.” Near the yard was grandma’s garden—a forbidden zone for playing; however, that did not prevent some of my eldest cousins from playing with squashed vegetables and trampling over her flowers.

Just beyond the garden was a “danger spot.” The flat grass in the yard ended next to the garden and on the other side there was a slope of grass that converged in to the highway. On one occasion, my cousins and I were playing a baseball game in the yard. When I was batting, I hit a long foul ball; it soared over the garden, over the slope, and on to the highway. I remember watching the ball bounce high off the paved road. We did not have any extra balls to play with, so our only option was to retrieve the foul ball off the highway. The rules were, “if you hit it, you get it;” so that is exactly what my cousins made me do. I was only around the age of six or seven, and crossing highways was not yet a safe practice my parents allowed of me. However, I just wanted to retrieve the ball so our game and my at-bat could continue. I passed down the slope, on to the highway where I saw the ball lying in the middle of the road. I was so anxious to get to the ball that I forgot to look both ways. Of course a car was coming and was forced to swerve, which saved my life. The car honked loud enough to notify all adults in the house. And before I knew it, the game was over, my older cousins were scolded and I was punished by my parents for such a silly decision to pass on the “danger spot.”

On the opposite side of grandma and grandpa’s yard was a white cow barn with a hayloft upstairs. The hayloft was dark and empty—there was only one light and the space was only occupied by dark air. The barn was rather old and probably unsafe for young children to gather in; however, we chose this spot as a popular hangout, because the hayloft had an old basketball hoop that we often enjoyed using. We even moved a trampoline up there, so that we could jump high enough for the thrill of dunking basketballs. The wood floor in the hayloft was very creaky and old; and when we would jump on the “tramp” the floor would sound like we were going to fall through. Naturally, this was not bothersome because we were enjoying ourselves too much. Luckily, the adults never decided to follow us to the hayloft otherwise there would have been little chance for us to play games, especially on the trampoline. I would consider the hayloft at grandma and grandpas, the cousin’s “secret place.” The only people who knew what went on in the hayloft were my cousins. Nevertheless, the secret did change because of a certain instance.

On the front side of the cow barn there was an entrance located on the ground floor. Just above was the hayloft where we played; the hayloft had an outside entry for tractors to unload hay bales, and from the ground to the hayloft entry was about twenty feet. This distance would make a dangerous fall. As we were playing one day in the hayloft, we had the outside entry open to gather some light for the dark place. While we were jumping on the trampoline one of my cousins jumped off on to the old wooden floor. When he landed on the floor, his balance was unstable. As a result, he fell through the open entry, down to the rock gravel path below. The fall had broken his leg and there was blood all around him. Immediately my cousins and I went in to tell the adults for help. This day marked the end to our days hanging out in the hayloft.

At grandma and grandpa’s farm, the kitchen was my family’s “favorite place” to gather. My grandma, mother, and aunts worked hard to prepare enough food for the family to be satisfied, and they never disappointed. They filled the table with turkey, ham, potatoes, corn, and rolls for dinner. But before anyone could eat, my big family circled around the little table filled with food and we said our dinner prayers. Everyone left the table with full stomachs, even though every time someone would walk back to the kitchen their appetites would reappear. Grandma’s kitchen was a special place for my family.

I have many memories from my childhood at grandma and grandpa’s dairy farm. My senses can still recall the characteristics around their country home. I can picture the white cow barn near the long yard, and I can smell the fresh manure outside and the fresh meals inside the house. But most of all, I remember all of the valuable time I had to spend with my family. Once again, I am excited to arrive up through the valley in my family’s maroon minivan.