Personal Narrative: My Dad

I loved driving ATVs as a child, but sometimes I forgot how young I really was. I had just finished grade four and I was spending a few days at my grandparents on their farm. One thing I loved doing while I was at their house was driving around on the quad, and I loved this so much because it made me feel like I was a grown-up. But because I was only ten at the time, and the quad they had was a rundown farm quad drom the early 1980’s, my Grandma would not let me leave the yard with it. I begged my Grandma to allow me out into the fields; I begged and begged but her answer remained a no. Being ten, I thought that she was saying no to be mean and that she did not knwo how good of a driver I was, but later that day I found out the hard way that

The day was starting to get late, but I knew that the sun would not set for a while yet, so I filled the old, blue, 500cc Honda with gas and set out for the horizon. I ripped across the gravel road in her front yard like I had done so many times before, but this time I went on. I dipped down into a deep, grassy ditch that started off a trail to the eastern pastures. The quad’s engine roared as I tore through the tall green grass; every blade of the prairie grass made a whipping sound as it smacked the bumper of my all terrain vehicle. I loved the feeling of the wind rushing through my hair and hissing by my ears. I only wish that I had brought water, because the air was drying out my mouth and the taste of dry, grassy air. The quad’s suspension had died off years ago, so every bump I drove over sent a direct jolt through my body; everything felt so real. I was

I enjoyed walking, but the cold dark lonely trek would be dangerous to say the least. If I were to step into the wrong pasture at any point along the way back, I could come face to face with a herd of massive, aggressive, mean buffalo. Despite my fear, I began my journey across the great, hilled, dark Canadian plain back to my Grandma’s. Everything seemed so quiet, with only the occasional “Moo” of my uncle’s cattle, grunt of the family bison, and moan of the Saskatchewan wind to disrupt my reflection on the event at hand. In my reflections I came to the conclusion that I deserved what was happening to me, and that my cold, lonely trek through my family’s land was just an obstacle that I was meant to overcome, whether that be with pride or with shame. Pride was my choice, but I was the only one to notice it, as I was the only person for miles around, not once did I hear an engine. The ground was much rockier and the grass much less alive along the way back; the cows looked at me with disappointment and the buffalo grunted in agreement. My last sense of pride left me as I passed through the outcrop of trees no more than fifty metres from my grandma’s