Pop's Place

[Zariah]

I decided since I have not fully explored writing fictional stories, that I would ease into it by sharing a piece which I wrote two weeks ago for my IB English class. We originally wrote 12 and chose our 5 favorite. This is my favorite. It is nonfictional, therefore you can learn more about me.

 

Pop’s Place

 

 

Each Easter, my father and I would visit my grandfather in Sedona, Arizona. Pop as we called him, lived alone in a medium sized multi-windowed home surrounded by scenic mountain views. He knew I loved to swim in his pool, and he took great care and effort to prepare it for my visit. He always enjoyed having his family present, and loved to watch me swim in his pool. I was an excellent swimmer, and on occasion, he would join me in the shallow end to play games. I could hold my breath underwater for a long period of time. It was diving for rings where I developed this ability. Pop would throw them in the deep end, and I would see how many of them I could gather before having to go up to the surface for air. Over the years, I became and expert and could even do several underwater flips before hitting the top.

Pop’s pool wasn’t the only interesting aspect of his back yard. I had many adventures outdoors in Sedona. His back yard was a jungle. Filled with juniper trees and exotic bushes, the insects and birds became my best friends. The most interesting wild life I encountered was Pop’s hummingbirds. Pop took care of them as if they were his own kin. Each morning, he’d fill up the seven feeders with sugar water, and distribute them throughout the backyard trees. Perhaps 50 hummingbirds would come at a time, and were they a site to behold! They’d flap their wings so fast, that it appeared as though they had none at all! I always deemed them as having the female gender because their bodies were sleek and slender. Around the side of his house, there was a larger plot of land. Full of various types of cacti and beautiful desert flowers, this was the home of the Arizona quail. Each morning, Pop would scatter seed and bread along an area, which we could view from his kitchen. As soon as he was inside, families of quail hopped into the pile. They were delightful to witness, because as they fed, their little heads, having a wiggly feather attached, would swing and wobble according to their movements.

One trip, which I remember vividly, was the Easter trip in 1991. My mother never went with my father and I, so she was back in D.C. working. I was so excited to go on not one plane ride, but two! On the journey to Minneapolis, my flight attendant pampered me. She gave me a coloring book and playing cards. I received attention from other attendants and was even allowed to visit the cockpit where the pilots were flying the plane! I remember the grumpy old man who sat in the isle where my dad and I were located. He switched seats with me, because I kept interrupting his nap when I needed to go to the bathroom. That made me sad, because I couldn’t see out the window. On my second flight, our attendant was male, but he was nice too. He gave me my own set of wings! In Phoenix, my dad rented a red car, and we drove two hours until we arrived in Sedona.

Sedona was splendid. I always associated Sedona with bright colors and the sunlight as it bounced off the red rocks. I can remember the little boutique shops we passed. And the rent-a-jeep place, not only because we rented one at some time or another, but also because ALL the jeeps were pink! I also associated the grocery store with pink because it was called the Piggly-Wiggly! We drove up the main street past The Hardrock Café, and the sun began to set. Finally setting eyes upon Kachina Drive, we became instantly excited to see Pop. He greeted us and we had a nice supper. The week flew by, and soon Easter Sunday approached. I knew this was going to be great because I had sneaked a peak into my dad’s suitcase and saw the gifts my parents were giving me. Being young and naïve I believed in the Easter bunny, and anticipated what he had for me as well.

Sunday morning arrived, and as the light streamed through the vertical blinds, my eyes wandered aimlessly along the thousands of books lined up on each shelf in Pop’s library. I popped up from the foldout couch, and ran to the bathroom. His guest bathroom had a distinct smell, perhaps a cross between Lysol spray and the way old people smell. I went into the dining room, and slid open the blinds. Outside on the steps was an Easter basket waiting for me! I unlocked the sliding door and brought it inside. By this time, my dad and Pop wandered in, most likely admiring my happiness, but I was too wrapped up in the gift to take notice. There were chocolates, little toys, and several Easter eggs full of Jellybeans. I absolutely loved Jellybeans; they were my favorite candy in the spring. My dad wandered over to the fireplace mantle and pointed out two smaller baskets waiting for me. I received more candy and toys, and more Jellybean filled eggs. In total there were 20 plastic eggs. I wanted to go outside for an Easter egg hunt!

While I put on some play clothes, my dad hid the eggs in the back yard. I took the biggest basket outside with me and began my search. My dad went inside to cook breakfast. I found three on the back porch. Down the steps I went, with a determined eye. There were two hidden under the diving board. One was between the cushions of the blue and white pool chair. Behind the bush to the left of the house were two. That left me twelve more to find. The search became trickier. Across the pool there were daffodils, and sure enough, I found a yellow egg inside a bloom. Two green ones were underneath the arms of claw cacti, and I made sure I was careful not to get pricked. I had searched the entire left and back parts of the yard; all was left was the right side along the wooden fence. I quested to the middle of the yard and saw a purple egg on the fence door. Excited, I began to run along the flat stepping-stones. I tripped, and flew down. Whoosh! As I slid along the rock-imbued ground, my left hand penetrated along the edge of a forward stone. As it ripped open my palm, several small slivers of rocks flew inside. At the time, all I could do was scream. Out rushed my father, anxious and worried about my painful cry. I was in too much pain to even speak; I simply raised my hand and watched the blood drip down my leg.

My dad grew hysterical and did not know what to do. He called up my mother who was at home 3,000 miles away. He couldn’t explain accurately what had happened to my mother, so she asked to speak with me. She asked me if I needed to go to the doctor if it was that serious, and I answered yes. She then, yelled at my father and told him to call a doctor. My dad, too baffled at the current situation, just held me as Pop called the only surgeon open on Easter Sunday. We made our way there, and I was scared that the surgery would be awful. The doctor was really nice. He numbed my hand and explained every tool he was going to use as well as what exactly he was going to do. I even got to watch it happen! He stitched me up with six stitches, and gave my dad a prescription for painkillers. I was even allowed to have the three little rocks he dug out in a little bag. All day, I was allowed to watch movies and eat Easter candy.

We left the next morning and headed back to Virginia. I never forgot all the fun (and disaster) that I experienced that Easter. Pop always kept his pool ready for my next visit and my animal friends anticipated my return. He passed away when I was ten years old. When I went to the funeral that spring, I traced the trail where I had slid and fallen. I picked up a small pebble and put it in my pocket as a token. To this day, I see vivid images of his home, which we refer to as Pop’s Place.

[Zariah]

I'm sad because no one has responded to my narrative....

[Gyrfalcon]

Well, for one I didn't have a lot to say.

 

I think you wrote your story well- I like the description of Pop's Place and of the hummingbirds feeding in the morning and of his gardens.

 

You cut the story off at the right moment, keeping it bittersweet without descending into looking for pity.

 

All in all, a good story.