Once Again At The Lake-Personal Narrative Analysis

Once Again at the Lake On a brisk Labor Day weekend, with rain shooting down from the sky, the most familiar place is within my sight. The long grass emerged out of the ground, with increased amounts of yellow dandelions in all the park. Each wave encompasses the sandy beach on each harsh repetition. The sound of the rain pounds onto the pavement, drowning out the songs of robins and bluejays. Boats rock forcefully over each rough wave, hitting one dock to another. Children run into each of the wakesetters, creating a game out of the awful storm. This is one of the many memories where Lake Delavan, Wisconsin will never leave my mind. The first memory of this place was when I was around six years old. I was simply sitting on one of the few dilapidated benches with numeral paint chips that sit in front of the baseball field park. The “big kids,” as I used to call them, were smacking

This hour long drive brought another significance to Lake Delavan. My family drove up together, picking up my cousins on the way. Having one extra spot in the car felt very out of place, especially when my grandpa was the one who established the family reunion annual occasion. My grandma Barb had the box of tissues by her side, pulling them out like it was her job. This time at the lake was the one labeled, “the one when we celebrated my grandpa’s death.” My family all lined up along the pier of the lake, with the waves producing the same sorrow emotion as the audience. The lake that is usually filled with sailboat competitions and children being tubed by Malibus and Mastercrafts has an unusual quietness. One could hear the televisions through the screens of each cottage door playing the Sunday football games, letting the A/C drift into the humid afternoon breeze. My grandma had the willpower to enjoy one last time with her former husband. The lake changed color from a blue to a dark hue--the waves eventually brought the ash out of