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personal essay writing 2

personal essay writing 2 - The Beach Life Scott Pantoskey...

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The Beach Life Scott Pantoskey 8/17/11 At young age, I experienced one of the most significant transitions of my life. What I thought was an extended vacation, became a devastating and permanent change as I said good- bye to my friends, memories, and part of my childhood. When I was eight years old, my family and I packed up and left Berkeley, California, the place I called home. Frightened of change and starting over, my siblings and I incessantly begged my parents to stay in Berkeley, California where we thought our future resided. Anger, depression, and disbelief took over my mind and body as we embarked on an eight-hour car ride to Orange County. Disgruntled with my parents and traffic, I hid my face in my pillow in hope to escape from reality. Constant reminisces of old memories flashed in and out of my mind as we approached Southern California. As trees began to disappear and beaches became abundant, I knew my life was going to change tremendously. We entered Newport Beach and soon made our last turn onto Pirate Road before our car came to a complete stop. My heart sunk as my dad said, “We’re here”. I was hesitant to open my eyes and glance at the two-story white house, which was my new home. I stubbornly waited in the car as my family started unpacking. It appeared as if my family had already forgotten the wonderful life we left back in Berkeley. Ready or not, I knew I had to leave the car and begin a new chapter of my life. I grabbed all my belongings and began to follow my family down a narrow brick pathway, which separated two chunks of grass. I experienced the longest twenty steps of my life as I walked down the pathway and observed the features of our new front yard. Even though I was still upset, I was excited to see a small basketball hoop on our driveway, which was one of 1
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my favorite features of my old house. As I approached the bright red door at the end of the pathway, I paused for a few seconds and stared at the door that separated my past and future. I gently opened the door and stared directly into an aged mirror that rested on a wall fifteen feet directly in front of me. A look of despair covered my face as I entered the house and walked on the chestnut hardwood floor. My siblings frantically rushed up the stairs in hopes of claiming the best room, while I casually strolled through the house observing the bare walls and sometimes an occasional painting left behind by the previous owner. Each room had a distinguished color scheme. Some inviting, others dark and mysterious. The family room was one of my favorites. It featured a tall
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