Journey
The Journey
Continuous Writing Essay
We were quite a pair, silently waiting on the dusty train platform in the late afternoon. Clutching our rolling suitcases, we were unable to speak over the loud screeches and hisses of trains in Penn Station. There he was, my eighty year old grandfather with his massive shock of silvery hair and bushy eyebrows. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, which he insisted on wearing with suspenders, he was a unique sight in the middle of New York City. And there I was, a teenage boy in my jeans and t-shirt, armed with an iPod, magazines, and a deck of cards for playing goldfish. His aged but still clear light brown eyes were taking in the scene as I wondered how I was going to get through the next two days. Why did I ever agree to attend my cranky grandpa on a train ride from New York to Georgia? No one else would be the one to chaperone since my grandfather refused to fly. In opposition, I love to fly, since I want to get where I’m going as quickly as possible. No matter what anyone told my grandfather about the comfort and safety of flying, he refused to book a flight, saying, “It’s not just the trip, it’s the adventure of getting there.”
With my first step onto the train, the journey was already different from what I expected. The train was modern and filled with liberal travelers. We settled into the club car, where we could sit at a roomy table and enjoy food and drinks while watching the scenery pass. I had to admit that the rhythm of the train and the comfortable environment wasn’t a bad way to see the scenery. Instead of plugging into my music, I became a willing audience and learned family history that I had never had the time or patience to learn. My grandfather’s vivid childhood stories reflected growing up during the Depression with immigrant parents. With teary eyes, he told me that going to family events was hard for him since my grandmother died. It always made him think about those who were no
Continuous Writing Essay
We were quite a pair, silently waiting on the dusty train platform in the late afternoon. Clutching our rolling suitcases, we were unable to speak over the loud screeches and hisses of trains in Penn Station. There he was, my eighty year old grandfather with his massive shock of silvery hair and bushy eyebrows. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, which he insisted on wearing with suspenders, he was a unique sight in the middle of New York City. And there I was, a teenage boy in my jeans and t-shirt, armed with an iPod, magazines, and a deck of cards for playing goldfish. His aged but still clear light brown eyes were taking in the scene as I wondered how I was going to get through the next two days. Why did I ever agree to attend my cranky grandpa on a train ride from New York to Georgia? No one else would be the one to chaperone since my grandfather refused to fly. In opposition, I love to fly, since I want to get where I’m going as quickly as possible. No matter what anyone told my grandfather about the comfort and safety of flying, he refused to book a flight, saying, “It’s not just the trip, it’s the adventure of getting there.”
With my first step onto the train, the journey was already different from what I expected. The train was modern and filled with liberal travelers. We settled into the club car, where we could sit at a roomy table and enjoy food and drinks while watching the scenery pass. I had to admit that the rhythm of the train and the comfortable environment wasn’t a bad way to see the scenery. Instead of plugging into my music, I became a willing audience and learned family history that I had never had the time or patience to learn. My grandfather’s vivid childhood stories reflected growing up during the Depression with immigrant parents. With teary eyes, he told me that going to family events was hard for him since my grandmother died. It always made him think about those who were no