Personal Narrative: My Life After The Civil War

I am the soldier Jacob Raymond, who fought in the French and Indian War along with the American Revolution. Life in the colonies after the French and Indian War was wonderful until Britain passed the Proclamation of 1776. Parliament passed this law in order to stop us from moving west towards Quebec. This made it more difficult to farm and was starting to upset many of the colonists including myself. Next, the Sugar Act was passed in 1764.

Now, the laid back southern life to me, is the way to go! No one is ever in a hurry it seems, just moseying along at their own tempo of life. Sitting back relaxing in the yard with family and friends talking about everything under the sky, laughing and cutting up with one another, having a cook-out or a late night bonfire enjoying the night air, sippin’ on some sweet tea, is what is special in my heart.

Paragraph III: Upon Frederick’s escape to the north, he was able to find help and make it to New Bedford to settle with his wife. He was able to find employment on “the third day after my arrival, in stowing a sloop with a load of oil. It was new, dirty, and hard work for me; but I went at it with a glad heart and a willing hand. I was now my own master. It was a happy moment, the rapture of which can be understood only by those who have been slaves.

Fall Hike in October I’m running out of my house, slamming the door behind me and shouting, “I’m free!” at the top of my air-filled pink lungs. I get a few weird looks from the neighbors that are outside and a few from even the one’s inside but they’re used to my usual crazy outbursts. I don’t know if I should be worried by that or not.

Entering the once lonely house, there was a family rejoicing with a long-gone relative. As striking as the first rose in spring, her silky, soft, shiny hair combined with her enticingly exquisite eyes: producing a sublime look. Her upturned nose, oval face and elegant cheeks exhilarated hope within anyone in sight; she filled a void that could only be filled by her. Instantly ejecting any ridicule of the family, her presence made the household regain its original nobility. Spiralling into circle after circle on the indigo walls, like an optical illusion, numerous twirling lines were being contained in a plethora of thin liable cracks; suggesting, this house is enriched in Pangaea-old traditions.

For the past twenty-five years my close friend has attempted to enlighten me to the teachings of her ancestor's each time I questioned her reactions to such things as death, disaster, injustice, and also to her seemingly insane determination in the face of sure defeat. As she gently explained, the sound of her word's went into my ears. I comprehended what she was saying, however I didn't really understand until I was browsing through some pictures on the internet using a key phrase I had heard her say so many times; The Trail of Tears. A particular image caught my eye and as I looked at it, the flat words she had said to me began to come to life. Each word with it's own shape and rhythm began to come alive and together poured out to me a beautiful

William stared at the men on horseback behind James. Gone were the overalls and homemade cotton or hemp shirts. All the men wore black Kevlar vests and tactical gear that William had purchased and stashed in the cider mill armory. “Let’s go,” William said. William led the men off the estate and down Route 5.

If you could close your eyes and create an image of what comes to your mind when you hear the words “Cowboys” and “American Indians”. The most common image that individuals create in their minds of a “cowboy” is one who wears a hat to cover the sun’s heat, wears chaps and rides his horse, carries a gun, and around his waist carries the ammunition he uses to kill the “bad” enemies. While on the other hand, a standard image of “American Indian” is probably one wearing a headdress full of colorful feathers, and his skin is painted with bright colors as he gallops on a horse shooting bows and arrows, and while the rest of the tribe rests in teepees. These and many more standard images of “cowboys” and “American Indians” is what has become to be accepted as one of the many myths of the Wild West. The Wild West is America’s myth.

Once upon a time, there was a small town in Wyoming. It may sound like I’m going to emphasize how great of a place it was, but this town was as ordinary as any other town. With only a population of approximately four thousand, five hundred and seventy-three, at its highest point, it was a steady place to call home. Each morning, the roosters on the farm would crow, and the people would wake up. They would do their morning routines as they have always done and go to work at eight-thirty sharp.

On August 29, 2005, a category five hurricane, named Hurricane Katrina struck the city of New Orleans and destroyed everything in its path. As all the other residents of New Orleans, I was one of the people who experienced this horrible disaster. No one ever predicts that this kind of thing will ever happen to them. Everyone has their story about what happened to them during Hurricane Katrina, but I am going to tell you about my experience and how to affected my life.

Traveling was difficult, the roads rough and rugged. But Bob was not going to give in so easily. Even with the wagon wheel broken and many of his supplies gone, Bob’s attitude was inexorable. It was December of 1849, the year of the great gold rush! Instantly all kinds of people started to forge their way to California in great hopes of becoming rich.

The bloody hands of freedom Fear, hunger, illness were all horrid feelings I felt, but there is a small glimpse of hope and passion that might get me through the hard times. We stood our ground and when I thought we had given up, the French came on April 13,1778. I was not going to become a summer soldier but yet after a 2 year of enlistment some of my brothers deserted us. I have decided to re-enlist for three reason which knowing that the war is going to be hard but I am going to fight, my pride for my country, and love and passion.

I was born to the name of Glafirpul, the son of two farmers. My parents were mere peasants who have never seen war, and I was expected to amount to nothing more than that - a commoner, working my life in the farms. For better or worse, my life didn’t end up that way. When I was born, the Dwarves and the Greenskins had been warring for over fifteen years, with no victor in sight. We lived close enough to the center of the Mountain Kingdoms to be spared the carnage and bloodshed of the war… for a while.

The trail boss would select a cow that was above the other cattle, to lead the herd. The cattle would be left, in the morning, to graze upon pastures and then migrated along Chisolm Trail. The Cowboys led them in preparation for the Cattle Drive. Cowboys led the cattle down the trail; there were swing riders; who would be about one-third of the way back in the herd. There was also flank riders; they were about two-thirds of the way back, in the herd.

Civil War The year was 1861 and the first battle had already begun. The country was now divided as two teams, the confederates and the unions. I wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming battle that was about to happen. I sat in my tent in silence, thinking about what might happen.