Narrative Essay
Cooked at the Cookout
The field I sat on smelled of barbecue smoke and spilled sticky orange soda. I looked around at my family sitting on lounge chairs. I could see all of my friends with their families just beyond mine. The annual lake barbecue was the only place where all of the lake residents came together like one big community. Everyone knew everyone.
My 10 year old heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s as I nervously awaited my performance. As my little toes curled up in the grass, my cousins and brothers poked me.
“What are you gonna sing?”
“I hope you forget all of the words and lose your voice as you go up there!”
I just love my fans.
I couldn’t focus on anything. I sat staring into abyss, repeatedly reciting the lyrics to ‘The Climb’ by Miley Cyrus. I was just an ammeter. My arrogant brain thought that my idols, Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus were going to come to watch me. Could you really blame my 10 year old brain for thinking that Miley and Hannah were two different people?
My dad reached into the pocket of his faded blue jeans and whipped out his video camera. The red flash mesmerized me as he interrogated me.
“Are you ready?! Want to do some vocal warm ups for the camera?”
“No dad, let me get in the zone,” I said. I hate when my fans interrupt my wholesome moments of preparation. I knew how proud he was going to be in just a matter of minutes.
That’s when I heard my name echo over the speakers. The voice shot past the barbecues, over the tennis courts, past the golf course, until it bounced off the surrounding mountains and rang back in my ear. Everyone was staring at me. This was my pinnacle. I weaved my way through the many lawn chairs and families sprawled out across the extensive mass of grass. I heard the audience clap, erupting the brief silence into a roaring explosion.
It was warm outside, but when I wrapped my sweaty palm around the cool metal of the microphone, I still had the chills. My toes squished into the damp grass. I heard the volume of my background music rise from somewhere behind me. I would look back to observe who was controlling my music, but I was too busy focusing on how the crowd full of people was beginning to look like a graveyard. The music was my eulogy. This performance would be the death of me.
Microphone to my mouth, I began to sing. “I can almost see it, that dream I’m dreaming,” I managed to squeak out. I hated feeling this vulnerable. Before I knew it, the rush of fear that once numbed my senses had turned into an indescribable excitement. I belted my heart out for another minute with absolute success. In the middle of the second chorus, the microphone heated up and zapped my right palm. I quickly passed the mic to my left hand, continuing on as if nothing had happened. About ten seconds later the same sensation happened in my left hand so I passed it back to my right. The show must go on. Even as the mic zapped each hand as I passed it back and forth, I acted as if I wasn’t mortified on the inside. I successfully made it to the bridge of the song with reasonable amounts of trauma.
That’s when I felt a spark in my right palm. Not just a little zap, but a really big spark. This spark illuminated my hand, and shot through my entire body like a virus. It electrified me too much to finish the song. I tossed the mic on the floor. A field full of people had never been so silent. My heart had stopped, yet it was beating a million miles a minute.
What happened after that was kind of a blur. I remember seeing my mom weave her way through the crowd to see if I was breathing, and exploding into a puddle of tears. Someone carried me and laid me down on a patch of grass. I remember a lineup of residents claiming they were doctors and offering their services. I was absolutely shocked.
I woke up in bed the next day. I cracked open the door and peered at my family. My youngest cousin turned towards me with wide eyes. “She’s alive,” is all he managed to say. My family stared at me with concern and curiosity. A fireman had determined that the electrocution was due to my damp bare feet, standing on the stage, racing electrons around me like a firework. I don’t remember much but I know this: I will eternally be etched in everyone’s mind as the girl that got electrocuted.
The buildings represent me building up all my courage and rising to the occasion, and the lightning represents the enemy, and the force working against me
What to improve:
Cut unessacary words and deadwood
Read over final draft for spelling errors
What I did well:
Provided good imagery with discripticve writing
Kept it casual by adding a humour aspect
Measurement Overview – Week 6
Measurement has definitley been the hardest unit for me so far. Once provided with a formula sheet, you can figure out lots of different solutions like a recipe. Something I found interesting was how 2 cones fit exactly into a sphere with the same dimensions. This means that a hemisphere is equal to 1 cone. We also found out that 3 cones fit exactly into a cylinder, and 3 pyramids fit exactly into a box of the same dimensions. As shown below.
Volume Of Cones – Week 5
The measurement unit is especially hard for me. Something I found fascinating is how a cone is always exactly 1/3 of a box it could be in. Shown below, I demonstrate how to find the volume of a cone.