For my imitation essay I chose "Once More to the Lake" by E.B. White.
It seemed almost surreal when I first read the essay, in fact it wasn’t until the second or perhaps third time that I really believed it. I also grew up with a cabin by the lake in Maine only about 181.2 miles north of where E.B. White spent his summers and it belonged to my Aunt Jeannette. To say this story seems like something that I experienced is weird, because too much similarity exists between Mr. whites story and mine. The explanation of the motors on the boats, I know this; I taught my son how to coast smoothly, to look knowledgeable in front of others, but really; just to look cool for the girls, in case they were watching.
The order of the paragraphs seems to be more of a letter to oneself, or personal journal entry.
Simple words nothing too hard or fancy to understand; but the
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It was cold; the kind of cold that when you took a deep breath, it hurt your lungs, and the wind would come roaring off the lake like thunder, it always seemed as if summer was a thousand years away, and the sunshine that warmed us as we swam in the very same lake in July would have to be drilled open with an Auger, or a smartly placed shotgun gun blast through six or more inches of ice to even try to let the fish know you have a wonderful squishy worm and he should come get it, and you know this because the chickens have provided the best, stinky, warm, wet, and messy mud pile that even in winter never freezes or loses its ammonia like odor, Dad says it’s the best dirt, I say the worms are huge because that’s all I care about, a great big old jiggly wet sticky worm and time fishing with dad.
I still fish as much as a responsible, employed, family man can. So I had waited a long time for the little ones to be of an age where seven hours on a plane and a few more hours of driving, would not cause a complete breakdown of family unity. besides sleeping on the couch is never fun except when you go to the