So I have to write a small book/biography about myself in vignette form. We have to do ten of them. I picked my favorite three and I wanted to see how they sounded to a stranger, not me. So here they are. You can just pick one to critique if you don't have a lot of time.
I did a few *insertnamehere*'s to hide personal information.
on the farm
I lived in a green house in the middle of nowhere. But in my eyes, I grew up on the farm. My grandparents bought an old farmhouse up the road back in the 60’s. The white house sat on top of the hill, watching over the grazing cows in the valley below. A country road separated the house and the big red barn, but they went together like peanut butter and jelly.
We have twenty seven people in our family. At first glance, my grandfather ran the family. But if you were to look deeper, you would see my grandmother behind the control panel. She was our trunk. Without her, the family tree would collapse.
What I remember most about the house is the upstairs bathroom. It was our playroom. My grandfather never bothered to apply grout to the tiles on the bathroom floor; he never believed in luxuries. We would take them all out. My cousins and I were busy bees; putting the hexagonal mustard tiles back together; building our hive. The toilet was in a closet of its own, a perfect hiding place to play hide and seek when our puzzle thrills were over.
It was an exciting day when Mable Joy came to town. The wedding bells were ringing as my Aunt Mary stepped out onto the front porch with my new Uncle Ralph. A Swiss with a big red bow stood on the walkway; Mable was proud to be a wedding gift. The kids squealed with joy. Finally! A cow with a name! Mable was the pride…and Joy, of the *InsertLastNameHere* family. Mable Joy inhabited the farm for many years, eating grass and providing a sweet eye for anyone who happened to pass.
The roof of the cattle barn was a popular hangout for the kids once we got older. You would have to go through the barn first, avoiding the evil barn cats that would often come out to terrorize your shoe laces. Then you would have to risk your life to climb under the electric fence. This would get difficult when the cow’s found it necessary to bake their cow pies right in our path. Then we would climb on the barrels and shove ourselves up onto the roof. Up there, the girls would watch the sunset as the boys attempted to ambush us from the thicket below. Rubber bands would go flying, voices would be screeching, and parent’s heads would be shaking. They had always told us to stay off there.
Easter was always the most fun. The girls would prance around in their pastel dresses with matching parasols. Often we would interrupt the men’s game of wiffle ball. We would sit on the front lawn, sipping lemonade, and peaking around the bushes to see where our mothers would hide the eggs to get an advantage on the boys. However, when it came time to the actual hunt, the boys always won because they would hold the girls hostage until we revealed the whereabouts of the deeply-coveted chocolate eggs. Mable would watch on from behind the fence. And it was funny…we would always find some extra egg wrappers in cow pies the next day. I guess she must have forgotten to unwrap them before she snuck them from the baskets.
Then Grandma and Grandpa moved away. The farm was renovated. The cows were gone. The barn was no longer a bustling place of activity. Easters, Christmases, Fourth of July’s were celebrated elsewhere, in the tiny condo of another relative. And Mable Joy passed away in the field one summer day when the farm was no longer.