Look What I found!

So I was looking for a good essay I had written to submit somewhere, but instead I found this narrative. Remember? This was one of my better papers in that class. It really shows a part of my life :)

Kathryn Larsen
Sister Harris
Honors 150 Sec. 19
October 3, 2007

GRANDMA

Grudgingly I swallowed the pancakes my mom had concocted for breakfast. I never really liked pancakes. They’d constantly get caught in my throat and make my stomach squirm. In spite of the pancakes, I was determined to have a good day. It was the fourth of July, the day our nation celebrates independence from tyranny. But my family had not yet recognized the absence of tyranny. That Saturday morning while all of our neighbors were sleeping in, planning barbecues, and going to parades, my family would be outside drenched in sweat.
After surviving breakfast, we stepped into our work shoes. My shoes were always the cleanest. Everyone else had worn out, filthy shoes that smelled like grass. I was anxious to get my shoes dirtier, so I could feel like a harder worker. I’m the slacker in my family. As the youngest, I was always an incapable child. I never beat anyone at sports, I couldn’t read fast, and I wasn’t strong enough to push the lawn mower. The only task I had mastered was setting the table. It was a hopeless endeavor to try and out do my older siblings. They’d had an edge on me from the start. But on that day of Independence, things were going to be different. I had been promoted to the office of cherry picker. Even though I despised cherries, I planned to work hard and prove myself as a dedicated, obedient family member. To show my determination, I was wearing my work tee-shirt. Its torn sleeves and yellow stains didn’t bother me because the shirt bore my mission statement: “I believe in Mom, I believe in Dad.” If I could show Mom and Dad I was good at something, it didn’t matter how much better my older brothers and sister were.

“Look out Katie!” I turned my head just in time to be hit smack in the face by a giant dirt clod. “Sorry!” It was my teasing older brother James. He’s the one in our family who can either be really funny, or really annoying depending what mood you’re in.
“Sure you are,” I mumbled under my breath as I instinctively picked up my own dirt clod and hurled it back in his direction. I missed. I could never win dirt clod fights. It’s tough being a girl with six older brothers. You got to learn how to defend yourself and fight back. Especially during times of dirt clod wars which almost always accompanied travels up to Grandma‘s house. Our backyard connected with hers so it wasn’t a long trip, but for a nervous six-year-old like myself, it was quite a journey. I held my breath as we crossed the big flat bridge over the canal that ran through our yard. Everyone made sure to avoid stepping on the four loose boards so that the bridge wouldn’t unhinge and send us all sprawling into the water. Birds chirped in our tall cotton wood trees and the warm cloudy weather was perfect for morning time cherry picking. Today was the day. I could feel it.
When we reached our destination, the silver glint of a metal ladder shown through the orchard trees. We were surprised to be informed that we were, “late,” and my seventy-five year old grandmother had already been out for over an hour acquiring bushels of cherries. Alarmed, we rushed to her aide with haste. It is always hard to find a way to help out my grandma. She grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in Southern Utah. She spends more time working in her yard then she does eating, sleeping, or anything else that a normal human being is expected to do. Sometimes I wondered if she ever washed her clothes because they always omitted the smell of insecticide. To be frank, I‘ve never met anyone with a more insane work ethic. Normally when you work with Grandma, any kind of talking, giggling or other form of enjoyment is prohibited. Today was no different. Immediately we began working without the slightest signs of communication or joviality.
I started on the short branches closest to the ground. Having short legs, they held the only cherries I could reach. From my perspective, I was doing an exceptional job. I had almost picked an entire bucket. My mom even complimented me on my hard work so I knew I was being a good little helper. But then, it all changed. Apparently I was doing something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Something against my grandmother’s religion. The hair on my neck flew up as I heard her shrill voice behind me,
“No, no that’s not how you pick cherries.” I was devastated. How else was I supposed to pick cherries? I had gotten them off the tree hadn’t I? I had even left on the stems just like everyone else! Now they were all staring at me with annoyance. My closet brother Greg chuckled rudely and James gave me eyes that seemed to say,“ you’re in for it.” How could she ruin the reputation I had put so much effort into building?! I had begun my cherry picking and fitting in quite well as a hard worker. Without delay my grandma was standing by my side. She was so short I could’ve reached out and touched the top of her head, which wasn’t a common occurrence between me and most grown ups.
“Stop pulling them off the trees! You’re doing everything wrong! You need to turn them.” So I attempted to turn the cherries as I picked them. I was an obedient six year old. I knew that if you didn’t do exactly what Grandma said, you might as well have been chewing tobacco with no place to spit.
“You’re still doing it wrong, you’re going to pull down the entire tree.” Oh my gosh! Just relax Grandma! Before I could try and pick another cherry, she had wrapped her hand awkwardly around mine, twisting my hand painfully as she directed it towards the tiny fruits on the tree. We picked all the cherries reachable from the ground in that fashion. How embarrassing! When she finally let go of my aching hand I thought we had finished. But things only got worse. Suddenly Grandma pulled out my greatest terror: a giant metal ladder. I had very little ladder experience at the time and I was in no mood to gain any. But there was never any arguing with Grandma. She set up the huge ladder insecurely against a tree and commanded me to climb up it. I was so terrified I almost wet my pants. As I started my way up the ladder, I noticed my mom’s apprehensive glances. She knew how frightened I was of climbing things. I had never even seen the attic at my house, because I was too scared to climb up to it. Swallowing, I began my ascension up the ladder. When I reached the middle step I decided I had gone far enough. The ladder was already swaying slightly as I reached for the high up cherries.
“You’re not high enough, go higher,” Grandma said from below me. My legs trembled as I slowly moved up two more steps. By now the ladder shook violently with the slightest shift of my weight.
“Uh, Grandma I’m going to fall,” I muttered, fearful that the ladder would collapse if I talked too loud.
“ You have to go higher.” But I couldn’t. One step up was the top step. You
should never stand on the top step of a ladder. “what‘s taking you so long,” Grandma called up with her nasally old lady voice. I hefted up my right leg cautiously and placed it on the top step. Phew. I had made it. Then I lifted my left leg. The ladder jolted back and forth for an agonizing instant, but then regained its balance as I held my body erect. I stood there in awe for a few seconds, marveling at what I had just accomplished. Then I realized I was supposed to be picking cherries. I stretched out my arm to the closest bunch. Leaning delicately, I extended like a buff ballerina. Just as I was about to, “twist,” a cherry out of the tree, there was an abrasive sound of scraping metal. Before I could realize what was going on, I found myself face down in a vivacious pile of thorny bushes. I couldn’t move. I thought for sure I had died. Then someone started to lift me up. It was my oldest brother Michael. The bushes yanked at my clothes as he pulled me out. My pants had ripped. There were leaves and thorns all through my hair and I needed to cry. But I couldn’t. Not in front of Grandma. I felt miserable. Before I could make it over to Mom, Grandma was back standing next to me. She had already set the ladder back up against the tree again, and she didn’t even ask if I was all right. I looked over at my family huddled together under the orchard trees. They all stared at my injuries with understanding. Something told me it was going to be my turn to pick what was for breakfast tomorrow. Like a true Larsen, I started up to the top of the ladder and picked cherries for two more hours.