Types of Papers: Narrative/Descriptive

To write a narrative essay, youll need to tell a story (usually about something
that happened to you) in such a way that he audience learns a lesson or gains
insight.
To write a descriptive essay, youll need to describe a person, object, or event
so vividly that the reader feels like he/she could reach out and touch it.
Tips for writing effective narrative and descriptive essays:

Tell a story about a moment or event that means a lot to you--it will make
it easier for you to tell the story in an interesting way!

Get right to the action! Avoid long introductions and lengthy

descriptions--especially at the beginning of your narrative.

Make sure your story has a point! Describe what you learned from
this experience.

Use all five of your senses to describe the setting, characters, and
the plot of your story. Don't be afraid to tell the story in your own voice.
Nobody wants to read a story that sounds like a textbook!

How to Write Vivid Descriptions

Having trouble describing a person, object, or event for your narrative or

descriptive essay? Try filling out this chart:
What do you smell?

What do you taste?

What do you see?

Remember: Avoid simply telling us what something looks like--tell us

how it tastes, smells, sounds, or feels!
Consider this

What do you

Virginia rain smells different from a California drizzle.

A mountain breeze feels different from a sea breeze.

We hear different things in one spot, depending on the time of day.

You can taste things youve never eaten: how would sunscreen taste?

Using Concrete Details for Narratives

Effective narrative essays allow readers to visualize everything that's

happening, in their minds. One way to make sure that this occurs is to use
concrete, rather than abstract, details.
Concrete Language

Abstract Language

makes the story or image seem clearer and

more real to us.

...makes the story or image difficult to vis

gives us information that we can easily grasp

and perhaps empathize with.

leaves your reader feeling empty, discon

and possibly confused.

The word abstract might remind you of modern art. An abstract painting, for
example, does not normally contain recognizable objects. In other words, we
can't look at the painting and immediately say "that's a house" or "that's a bowl
of fruit." To the untrained eye, abstract art looks a bit like a child's fingerpainting--just brightly colored splotches on a canvas.
Avoid abstract languageit wont help the reader understand what
you're trying to say!
Examples:
Abstract: It was a nice day.
Concrete: The sun was shining and a slight breeze blew across my
face.
Abstract: I liked writing poems, not essays.
Concrete: I liked writing short, rhythmic poems and hated rambling on
about my thoughts in those four-page essays.

Abstract: Mr. Smith was a great teacher.

Concrete: Mr. Smith really knew how to help us turn our thoughts into
good stories and essays.
Sample Papers - Narration

Student Sample: Holiday Warfare

Student Sample: Leandro

Student Sample: Small-Town Terror

Sample Papers - Descriptive

Student Sample: Young Lions, Young Ladies

Student Sample: The Old Fence

Student Sample: The Curse of the Dump

Student Sample: Diller's Dilemma

Student Sample: Lous Place

The Curse of the Dump

by Michael Smith
My wife and I were cleaning up our attic this weekend, and in the process I
found all sorts of old junk that I had forgotten about. Of course, I wanted to
keep everything I saw; otherwise, I would not have stashed it there in the first
place. But after standing over me and prying my hands off of every item that I
encountered, my wife finally convinced me to haul all of my broken treasures to
the Dump. I wince at the thought of having to brave the ever-present gloom
that reigns there. The Dump is a strange and repulsive place, where people tend
to bury the human spirit along with their refuse.
From the main road, the Dump looked like a prison. The perimeter was
surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link with barbed-wire stretched tightly
around the top of it. As I followed the slow procession of vehicles through the
front gate, I noticed a man peeking through the blinds of a dirty office building.

The building's tan exterior was peeling away, probably as a result of prolonged
exposure to the toxic environment. Up on a hill overshadowing the recycling
bins, there was another unsightly tan building. This one was twenty-five feet tall
and draped with rusty sheet-metal. Trucks full of old furniture, brush, and tree
limbs were unloaded inside of this building, for it contained the largest crushing
machine on the premises. When activated, it made torturous scraping noises
accompanied by splintering crackles. The old building looked like it had been
rammed into at least a hundred times, and if it happened one more time, it
would collapse taking every thing in it straight to hell.
The stench was unbearable. I pulled my shirt up over my nose to try and
filter the bitter air. Moments later, I saw a rat fumbling around with a Mac
Donald's bag. Weeds bordering the fence were littered with plastic wrappers,
styrofoam cups, and other non-biodegradable materials. Polluted water that was
seeping out of the dumpsters had formed stagnate puddles that were infested
with thousands of tiny spasmodic worms. I wondered how that anyone could
work in this foul environment and remain healthy, either physically or mentally.
People at the Dump all had the same blank expression on their faces, void
of any emotion. They came in like robots, emptied their trash, and sped away
as fast as possible without running someone over. A man with his pants not
completely pulled up was crawling through a dumpster full of old washers and
dryers. At one point he surfaced, paced back and forth furiously, and then dove
back in. No one seemed to care, or even notice for that matter. A young man at
the next bin over was throwing away black plastic bags full of roofing shingles.
The reason I knew this is because one of the bags ripped open while he was
hurling it into the dumpster. And the shingles caught my attention after just
reading a sign that said, Absolutely no contractor or construction debris. Within
minutes, a man wearing a coffee stained T-shirt and a hat bearing the Dump's
company logo approached the young offender. He said, "Son, whatcha got in
them bags?" The young man replied, "Just some old garbage." Knowing that the
young man was lying, the employee with a sinister yellow grin said, "Them bags
look awful heavy son. Are you sure you don't have any body parts in there?" I
decided to leave the two men alone; after all, my task was finished.
In conclusion, the Dump is an eerie and malodorous place, where we tend
to bury our spirit--our very humanity, along with our refuse. The Dump is a
metaphor for death, a graveyard laden with the excess of society. The repulsive
nature of the dump reminds us that one day we too will decompose and be
recycled back into nature. Because we find this distasteful, we bury our true

feelings behind a robotic nature. And after finally realizing that the curse of the
Dump is creeping upon us, we run away to escape its infectious melancholy.

The Old Fence

by Craig Snider

Student Sample: Short Descriptive

The old fence stands weathered and tired. It has been holding cattle in the field
ever since the farmer put it up. The cows have occasionally tried to break
through, but they have lost their battles; only the small yearlings have been
able to squeeze under the fence.
The poles stand rotten and weary; they are lined up in a sporadic order. The
spaces between are not always equal and their heights differ greatly. Some
have pulled loose from their holes, and they are held up only by the line of
barbed wire that clings to their hide. The line of fence looks much like a parade
of weary, beaten soldiers who have been defeated in battle and are lining up for
their last breath of honor before they are shot and killed.
In several places on the fence the barbed wire has been cut or bent out of
shape. But neither the rain and rust nor the cattle's fury has made the wire
calm or dangerous. Sharp, erect pins still show their warning of power; many
times they have acted as a catalyst between the cows and their angered
emotions.
Even though the fence is old and historical, it will not last very long because
there is a new owner. He is a man of power and wealth who has big plans, a
man too high to care for the cattle or the soil, a man whose only dream is
riches.
Instructor: Foltz-Gray

Young Lions, Young Ladies

by Shea Stutler

Adolescents like to have a place they can call their own. In the fifties,
teenagers hung out at the malt shop, sipping cherry cokes and rockin' with
Elvis. Today, in a small town in Tennessee, they're jam skating to Montell
Jordan. I was amazed to find a microcosm of life blooming on a 70 x 160-foot
cement slab known as a roller skating rink.
As I entered the building which housed the rink, the warm, nostalgic scent
of popcorn hit that part of my brain where dusty, cobwebbed memories live,
memories of my own adolescence. I made my way past a group of exuberant
teenagers at the snack bar until I reached the skating rink. Skinny, hard
benches, made for small butts, lined one wall. I took a seat and scanned the
rink. My eyes paused to read a sign; white, block letters on a black background
warned, "Skate at Your Own Risk."
Two young men swaggered past me: confident, heads held high, eyes
focused on their destination. I leaned over, looking down the long row of
benches, curious to find out where they were going. Their confidence lagged a
bit as they approached a large group of their peers, including several young
ladies. All of them exhibited signs of discomfort as the girls crossed their arms
over their nubile bodies and the boys tried hard not to stare.
Abruptly, a silent signal sent the entire assembly to the benches. Pairs of
dexterous hands laced up skates as quickly as possible, while other hands aided
in conversation that only the listener was allowed to hear. I was struck by the
intimacy of this scene. They all knew each other well. They had come together
in the freedom of this one place to share and explore without the encumbrance
of parents, teachers, or any other meddlesome adult. I sat bolt upright, feeling
very much like someone who had accidentally stumbled into a room full of
naked people.
Attempting to recover from my embarrassment, I was suddenly startled by
a cacophony . . . music, perhaps? It must have been music, because I glanced
down to find my foot tapping away to a beat long forgotten. As if on cue, young
people from every corner of the room flocked to the rink. The awkwardness
their bodies had expressed off the rink had been replaced by a grace not unlike
the albatross. They were clumsy in their approach to flight, but, once airborne,
they were a soaring sight to behold.
I was mesmerized by the effortlessness of their movements, weaving in
and out, endlessly circling. Skates became a blur of color: green, purple, blue,

pink, red--speeding by fast and furious. I felt the rush of wind on my face as I
caught the musky scent of cologne mixed with sweat. A swirl of communication
was taking place, none of it involving speech. The tactile sense had kicked in:
punching and shoving of young lions trying to impress their ladies of choice,
bodies brushing by each other, and the gentle touch of hand on arm. A
statuesque blonde, six inches taller than her partner, slipped. "Catch me, I'm
falling on purpose," her body language seemed to say. Eye contact was
prevalent. Most skaters continually scanned the rink, found the one they were
looking for, and BAM!! eyes quickly darted away. This testing of emotional
waters went on for several hours; boys and girls trying on relationships of men
and women like kids playing dress up in their parents' clothes.
I remembered the sign, "Skate at Your Own Risk." At the time, I had
worried about broken arms and legs, but as I watched the dance unfold on that
skating rink, I realized that these young people risk so much more. The pain of
rejection, the fear of making fools of themselves, and the devastation they feel
when they believe that they have, makes life for these adolescents a risky
business. Perhaps that sign should have read, "LIVE at Your Own Risk."

Lou's Place
by Patti Skorski

English 1010
Instructor: Mandy Preston
May 12, 2003
Student Sample: Descriptive Essay
It is at least twenty years later and I can still remember my first visit to Lous Caf.
Stopping in to see if anyone could tell us where to locate the turn we had missed, my husband
and I received a large dose of culture shock. It seemed as if we had opened the door to the
decades: a place where generations came and went, a place where time stood still and passed by
at the same time
Miss Lou Dixon owns and runs that restaurant in the middle of the town of Sunbright,
Tennessee. Miss Lou has been in business at that location since 1954. Even though the place
looks a little squalid, it is not for lack of care; in fact, Lou is proud of how clean she keeps her
place. She has often been heard to say, with the strongest East Tennessee accent, It dont matter

how pore a body is. They can be clean. She is proud of her A rating and prominently displays
it.
It is not a fancy restaurant. The hundreds of booted loggers, railroad workers, and oil field
roughnecks trekking through have worn the carpet thin. Chunks are missing from the carpet at
the favorite tables of the workers. The hardened veneer on some of the tables is missing a notch
here and there. The paint on the walls has cracks and there is a perennial smell of hamburgers
permeating the air. The casual observer could be forgiven for thinking the place is about to fold
financially; instead, what we found that night was a well camouflaged center of social activity
and the finest, most accurate, information available.
When entering the door at Lous, two things are immediately noticeable: the place is rarely
empty and seems to consist of a maze of rooms. The first room, through the door, is the main
part of the restaurant. There is another, rarely used, dining room off to the right. It was added
during the oil well boom of the seventies. Through the main dining room is yet another room; it
guards the door leading into the kitchen. This room contains the most coveted table in the place.
The highest tribute Lou can bestow on anyone is to allow them access to seats at this table. This
table is the family table; it is reserved for Lous, and her daughter Karens, immediate family and
treasured friends.
When entering the main dining room, whether by design or by custom, there is a definite
pecking order involved in the seating arrangements. The first table on the left, presided over by
an elderly gentleman with Basset Hound eyes, belongs to the old men of the town. The table sits
in front of one of two large windows; the old men can see and are able to comment on the doins
of them young uns running the town these days. It is amusing to discover that the average age
of the people under discussion is at least fifty and they took over their businesses from the same
old men looking over them now.
On the right side, the other large window is dominated by the womens information
league. In other towns they would be known as busybodies or gossips. At Lous, they are part
of the complicated information gathering process. They bring all the information from the night
before and are linked to the rest of the town through the old fashioned rotary telephone hanging
outside Lous kitchen door. The phone rings constantly: someone wants to call in an order,
someone wants to leave a message for a person the caller knows is going to be there sometime
during the day, and someone else wants to know where the police and the ambulance were going
last night. Along with all the calls coming in for the special of the day are also calls delivering
the latest events of the day. The old men on the other side of the room will be giving a running
commentary on the family of the latest newsmaker, their history in the community, arrest record
if any; the who, what, when, where, and why, of the story, with an accuracy to equal any
television or newspaper reporter.
In the evenings, when Lous daughter Karen gets in from school, she brings a change of
atmosphere. Even though the news branch never stops, it is replaced in importance by the young

people, heralding the evening. The old juke box, reigning in the corner, is brought to life and
starts blasting tunes that cover at least twenty years of change in musical tastes. The place fills
up with the towns young people. Whether the kids are flirting, giggling, strutting around, being
manly for the girls, or hiding in the darkest corner to profess undying love for each other, the
restaurant begins its shift as the towns social center.
All of the activity at Miss Lous is conducted in a haze of aromas, guaranteed to make the
mouth water. The smell is never the same; it depends entirely on what is cooking at the time.
Whether it is roast for tomorrows lunch special, a cake someone asked Lou to make, the spices
of an apple pie, or the ever present odor of hamburgers, it is a well known fact, it will taste as
good as it smells. The best part of being at Lous is not her food, however; it is the feeling of
being part of her extended family, being part of a tradition, when traditions are hard to come by.
The last time I was in Lous, I experienced another trip through times door; it was as if
nothing had changed, nothing, except the amount of gray in her hair. Some of the old men had
passed on; they have since been replaced by two or three of the young uns they used to keep
their eyes on. The phone still rings constantly, the women still gather their news, and a new
bunch of kids take over at night. Everything is the same, everything is different.

Diller's Dilemma
by Joyce Goodman

Student Sample: Descriptive

As far as I am concerned, the unpardonable sin is someone dropping by our
house before noon on Saturdays.
Since I go to school and work too, Saturday is the only day of the week on
which I can be lazy and sleep late. Therefore, I am late getting my housework
done. By Saturday, my house is completely in ruins; anyone who is blessed with
a six-year-old boy can understand what I am talking about. As an example, it is
not uncommon to walk into the living room and find an old ragged sheet or quilt
stretched across a couple of chairsthis serves as his tent. This is the exact
time some people decide to come by to see us. As the visitors come in, I
hurriedly snatch the tent down, but immediately wish that I hadn't for under it
are Chewbacca, Hans Solo, Luke Skywalker, C3PO. And R2D2. Trying
nonchalantly to push these Star Wars creatures aside with my bare foot, I
suddenly stop. My foot has come in contact with some unknown substanceit is
oozing up between my toes. I look down and silently blaspheme the makers of

Green Slime. As I gently remove my foot from this green wad, some of it
continues to cling between my toes. Pretending that it doesn't bother me, I lead
our guests into the dining room, hoping it will be more presentable. Much to my
dismay, it does not look any better, for there, on the table, are the remains of
my daughter's midnight snack. The remains include a black banana peeling that
looks like a relic from The Dark Ages; an empty glass with a dried milk ring; two
stale blueberry pop-ups; and a pile of orange-red carrot peelings. My daughter
is a border-line vegetarian, so the latter does not surprise me.
Having removed the residue from the table and seated our early birds, I am
brought to the second reasons why I dislike having company on Saturday
mornings. Remembering my in-bred Southern manners, I ask if I can get our
guests something to eat or drinkwhen it hits me like a two-by-fourI have
nothing to offer. This is grocery shopping day. I scrounge around the kitchen
and find a piece of molder cheese and a box of stale Ritz Crackers. As I humbly
set this before my guests, I am wondering if they like grape Kool-Aid. I fix a
pitcherfullall the while limping along and hating the slime that ha "set up," like
concrete, between my toes. Finally, I sit down with my friends and try to start a
conversation, wondering why they are staring at me.
As their gawking continues, I take a quick inventory. No wonder they are staring
at meI would finish in first place in a Phyllis Diller look-alike contest. A slow
red begins creeping up my neck as I realize that I'm still in my gown and
housecoat, hair in disarray, no makeup, and green slime between my toes. Yet,
I have no alternatives but to sit and endure, because my children are still
asleep, and my husband left early to make hospital rounds (or was it to get
away from home?). My company doesn't stay longthey have already seen
enough. I smile and say, "y'all come back now, hear?"
Since the morning is already ruined, I think I'll finish up the cheese and
crackers, drink another glass of Kool-Aid, leave the slime between my toes, and
go back to bed.
Instructor: Howard

Holiday Warfare
by Dennis Gardner

Winning Essay for Narrative Category,

Beulah Davis Outstanding Freshman Writer Award
Brave men of war have faced adversities both physical and mental and risen
above them as butter from cream. Chivalry and conquest have carried soldiers
from pole to pole and across the seven seas. Hardships of campaign life are
legendary, and the iron men these trials created go down in history as examples
to all mankind.
I have faced battle under duress and have learned I am not a brave man. Shellshock is partially defined as a "psycho neurotic condition akin to hysteria." To
this day I am saddled with the memories of the day I was sent to battle in my
Grandmother's kitchen. No man should have to endure these conditions. Women
can, with impunity, set foot in the estrogenically charged atmosphere of
Grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving Day; greater men than I, however, have
been broken this way. Men of the world take heed, only the insanely brave or
exceedingly foolish would choose to accept this near-suicide mission. Counting
myself as the latter, I offer my tale as counsel.
The day was overcast, cold and thoroughly November. I answered the call to
arms with the eager sincerity of a private fresh from basic training. My
Grandfather wept openly, fearing for my life as I bade him farewell. I entered a
young soldier brimming with bravado; I returned a troubled man with bruised
ego, clutching hard-won wisdom to my breast.
The fact that women are vastly better equipped for a culinary tete-a-tete with
Grandmother should have been apparent to me after the opening salvo, but I
was too green, too new and shiny, to heed.
"Have you seen your cousin George's new haircut yet, Denny?" asked Granny.
Shot number one had been fired, and I did not even hear the air-raid sirens.
"Yeah, I like it," I answered with none of the suspicion that has dogged me at
holidays since my tour of duty.
"It makes him look like a porcupine," chimed in my Aunt Molly, correctly
answering the subtle part of the question and putting any doubts about the
spike haircut and its social value to rest.
"Uncle Dwight's been smoking again," Granny mentioned tersely.

"I know, I bummed one off of him today already," I said quietly.
"Well, let me tell you about Dwight's smoking, where it has gotten him, and
what will happen to you if , . . ." Granny had launched into a surprise flank
attack and caught me off-guard!
I regained my senses and dove into a foxhole I had dug out of an old mound of
flour. Hiding and licking my wounds, I pondered my first lesson of holiday
kitchen combat. Men cannot gossip effectively with professionals. It is dirty, it is
dangerous, and it hurts. I thought I was well-camoflauged in my foxhole, but
Grandma switched on the radar and found me.
"Melt that butter in the microwave and bring it over here."
This was a seemingly easy mission. My hopes for combat glory were restored. I
grabbed my combat-issue wooden soup spoon and charged from my hole, eager
to prove my mettle. This skirmish turned for the worse when I pulled the butter
out early and delivered it only partially melted.
"Men will never follow instructions," Granny told me with a flourish.
"They will simply never have a woman's touch," Molly fired from the rear guard
by the oven.
"So true," replied Grandma. "Your Grandfather cannot even reheat coffee in that
thing. He'll take it out before the bell dings, curse the oven for not warming his
coffee, and then act plain hateful all morning."
"Men are just too heavy handed," surmised Molly, who obviously loved all men
everywhere.
"Damn, ya'll don't fight fair," I retorted as I retreated to a bunker constructed of
baking sheets. "Grandpa's not hateful," I said from behind a muffin pan. "He
cried when I left the living room!"
A "Humph" from Molly was the warning shot fired in my general direction.
I put a soup pot on my head to guard against flying turkey giblets and hunkered
down to ponder a while.

Men will never have a woman's touch I reasoned, not anytime, not anywhere.
This is because we are "heavy handed." This consists of being impatient,
arrogant, and having an all-around bad attitude. Apparently this lethal
combination of character defects alone is enough to forever guarantee that we
fight discrimination in the kitchen.
The words, "Denny, you're a restaurant cook, come over here and make the
gravy," stirred me from my contemplation. I locked and loaded and rushed from
my bunker. As I crossed the kitchen on all fours, timers jangled, grease
splattered, heat gave forth from all around, and clouds of flour drifted by.
"My God," I whispered to myself," the despair, the utter despair and horror."
A strange confidence came over me as I made my way to the stove. It was the
comfort of a condemned man. I knew that soon this ordeal must end. I was
moving towards the heart of the battle, and one way or another--on a stretcher,
in glory, or in a turkey basting bag--soon I would be going home.
I believed in my professional ability enough to make a simple turkey gravy,
though I did not at the time realize that no man can truly match his culinary
skills against his Grandmother's, especially on Thanksgiving Day.
I began to add flour to simmering clarified butter to make a roux. This was
where I received the shrapnel in my cooking hand that would ultimately send
me home with a purple beet medal for being wounded while preparing food.
"Honey," Granny started, I suppose taking pity on me because of my obvious
battle fatigue, "put the flour in with some water and stir it into the broth when it
is close to a boil, not the other way around." I visibly crumbled.
"Send him home to the living room,' muttered Molly, "his spirit is broken; he's
of no use now."
I removed my dirty battle apron, accepted my purple beet, and left the field for
the rear echelon of the living room.
Grandpa started crying again when he saw my purple beet and needed a
Kleenex when I told him of my gravy. My Uncle Douglas, who was too young to
remember the turbulent climate of the days leading up to Thanksgiving, looked
at me as if I had been burning bras with the women instead of fighting in futility
for the good name of men everywhere.

I settled back into an easy chair to relate my story. The older men, Grandpa and
Dwight, looked on with understanding as they had fought in World War II.
Douglas smirked in the corner with all the arrogance of a heavy-handed young
man. Dwight handed me a cigar and we settled back for a football game,
thankful to a man for my safe return.
Instructor: Marilyn Monday

Leandro
by Joan Kendrick

Student Sample: Short Narrative

I'll never forget the day I began to suspect that there was an advantage to
being a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant.
The incident that I'm relating occurred on a hot, humid May morning in 1947. I
was a first-grade student in Miss Butler's class at Fanning Elementary School in
San Antonio, Texas. The disturbance was over in a matter of moments, but the
memory of it is imprinted forever in my mind.
Miss Butler was infamous for her stern discipline. Little hands and minds were
kept busy, and anything that resembled foolishness was quickly curtailed with a
sharp rap on the head or knuckles with the long pointed stick she carried. You
can imagine the horror I felt when, while drawing in a deep breath of air, I
accidentally whistled. Miss Butler spun around from the blackboard, and seeing
my expression, demanded, "Joan, did you do that?"
I managed to find my voice and pointed to the Mexican boy next to me and
said, "No. Leandro did it." His denial was of no consequence; in a moment the
stick had descended, and Leandro was sobbing into his worn shirt sleeve.
Somehow, I had known she would believe me. After all, I was a nicely dressed
little white girl, and I lived in a pretty white house, and my mother was active in
the PTA. And Leandro, who was he? A fat little Mexican boy who had difficulty
speaking English and whose mother had too many children to care for to attend
meetings. And besides, we all knew how "spicks" lied and stole and then prayed
for forgiveness to idols that smiled down from their candle-lit altars.

Leandro, how I wish that I could ask your forgiveness. I don't remember your
last name, but I'll never forget your face. My sin went beyond the telling of a
lie. I knew that my skin was whiter than yours and that somehow that had
given me an advantage over you.
And I was six years old.

Small-Town Terror
by Carolyn Gamble

Student Sample: Narrative

Situated between majestic mountains and rolling hills, Benton is much like any
other small eastern Tennessee settlement. It was election day, and looking
forward to a visit to the ice cream shop, I accompanied my grandfather as he
drove the ten-mile journey to town. Country life offered little excitement, but
that day an air of uneasiness replaced the usual contentment one felt while
passing aged buildings, their drabness contrasted sharply by a few colorful,
modern improvements. Having spent the first ten years of my life here, it was
easy to detect any change in the town's mood.
I pondered the worried expression on the faces of the few people we saw on the
streets. It seemed everyone was in a hurry. There were not the usual groups
gathered to exchange local gossip. Most noticeable was the absence of children.
As my grandfather's dilapidated Ford approached the town's only traffic light,
we were greeted-not by flashing red, yellow or green--but by uniformed
National Guardsmen armed with guns and appearing much out of place in such
placid surroundings. As our vehicle slowed to a stop, I was aghast as I saw
before me a huge machine gun, pointed in our direction. A young guardsman
walked briskly to the car and explained, almost apologetically, "Sorry Sir, but
we'll have to search your car. Just routine procedure."
As the car was being searched, we learned the reason for such drastic
precautionary measures. A man whom we knew and who was a candidate for
the sheriff's office, had been brutally murdered in the presence of his wife and
daughter. It was rumored that the opposing party was responsible for the fatal

shotgun blast, and other rumors stated that explosives would be brought into
town to bomb the courthouse.
As this unbelievable information was being given, I sat petrified, trying to
convince myself that this was the same town where, only yesterday, old men in
dirty overalls lounged around the courthouse, spitting tobacco and discussing
the forthcoming election. Dogs and children had romped freely on the
sidewalks, while women browsed in the stores for hours without buying
anything. Strangely, all this had changed overnight, and the preconceptions I
had about our peaceful country and the glorious right to vote were beginning to
sound as a sour note. Marching through the streets, guards with guns gave the
appearance of towns I had seen in the movies. Towns which did not know
freedom, but captivity.
"He'll probably go home," I mused to myself as my grandfather began changing
the gears to move on. Surely no one could be so stupid as to go into that
courthouse now! Thinking how wonderful it would be to get back to the safety of
our farmhouse, I was somewhat taken aback when Grandpa parked near the
entrance of the threatened building. The lines in his face seemed to be carved
with determination, and with unfaltering stride he quickly mounted the steps to
the building. A man had died at the hands of those who tried to control a
county's right to vote. That "right" was now even more precious. Grandpa would
vote.