The Deal :: Personal Narrative Writing

The administer We had a deal, Ada and me. We decided that, since n both of us evaluate to live forever or get erupt of this existence alive, which ever star didnt die beginning(a) would spend the funeral of the one who made it out first telling bad jokes. This wasnt going to win either of us any friends among the family or gathered mourners but we didnt care. In our rather humble opinions people took expiration far, far too seriously anyway. As I told Ada many times, having been dead once, the whole experience is highly overrated. And she agreed, having been dead once before herself. there were no bright lights, no family waiting, nothing to farm the entire experience one worth revisiting, but as death was as inevitable as taxes, we both realized that the next time would belike be the time we got our exit visas from this cycle of reality stamped, and soundly. Now, I feel I need to apologise a couple of things before we go more further. Ada is, rather was, my gra ndmother. A southern lady of the old school, she could achieve more with a embossed eyebrow than a raised voice. No one in the family wanted to see that look of disappointment on her lovely little face so we all strove to make life as docile on her as possible. Her husband, my late grandfather, had been saddled by his parents with the name William Homer. He had once been a esthesis athlete in high school and had won awards in every single sport offered in their little hometown. Baseball, football, basketball, you name it, he played it, he mastered it, he made it his own. And it didnt get any better when he became an adult. Just more intense. Homer had boxes of trophies in closets all over their house, racks of them displayed prominently by the most current achievements and their position of honor was class-conscious by the difficulty of the task. Any flat surface that would hold some shiny bit of novelty that had his name on it and some amazing feet of athletic achievement he had conquered was coated in a heavy furniture wax and summarily herd in with the little men holding play clubs, bowling balls, olive laurels or just simply their own hands over their heads.The Deal Personal Narrative WritingThe Deal We had a deal, Ada and me. We decided that, since neither of us expected to live forever or get out of this existence alive, which ever one didnt die first would spend the funeral of the one who made it out first telling bad jokes. This wasnt going to win either of us any friends among the family or gathered mourners but we didnt care. In our rather humble opinions people took death far, far too seriously anyway. As I told Ada many times, having been dead once, the whole experience is highly overrated. And she agreed, having been dead once before herself. There were no bright lights, no family waiting, nothing to make the entire experience one worth revisiting, but as death was as inevitable as taxes, we both realized that the next time w ould probably be the time we got our exit visas from this cycle of reality stamped, and soundly. Now, I feel I need to explain a couple of things before we go much further. Ada is, rather was, my grandmother. A southern lady of the old school, she could achieve more with a raised eyebrow than a raised voice. No one in the family wanted to see that look of disappointment on her lovely little face so we all strove to make life as easy on her as possible. Her husband, my late grandfather, had been saddled by his parents with the name William Homer. He had once been a star athlete in high school and had won awards in every single sport offered in their little hometown. Baseball, football, basketball, you name it, he played it, he mastered it, he made it his own. And it didnt get any better when he became an adult. Just more intense. Homer had boxes of trophies in closets all over their house, racks of them displayed prominently by the most current achievements and their position o f honor was ranked by the difficulty of the task. Any flat surface that would hold some shiny bit of bric-a-brac that had his name on it and some amazing feet of athletic achievement he had conquered was coated in a heavy furniture wax and summarily crowded in with the little men holding golf clubs, bowling balls, olive laurels or just simply their own hands over their heads.