Personal Narrative-The White House

When I was young, I lived in a house in the small town of Richland. My house was white, hence it was always called “The White House”. We always had numerous neighborhood kids running about, because our house was caught in the middle between two apartment buildings. The summers were always beautiful, with the colors so vibrant. Our house was surrounded by Northern Catalpa trees. They had leaves that could be larger than your face and I always remember stacking them up in towers or pretending they were lily pads when it rained. I lived with my parents and my older brother and sister. We always used to roam around on our bikes and explore the woods that surrounded everything like a barrier. There was a little forest den that must have been cleaned
out by man. The floor was dirt, but flat from the years of people stepping around. The air smelled of pine trees and the trees were perfect for climbing. We all used to hang out there, although I didn’t like to talk to the boys. They were sorta gross. It turns out that I had good reason. My sister and I were very close and we always explored everything together. We rode our bikes through the woods, or tried anyway. We ad our best friend Daisy always with us. I don’t know if it’s the nostalgic feeling of childhood, but everything seemed so beautiful and bright. Even when the forest was dark and damp, the dirt seemed to smell fresh. I would come back home at sunset, with my white shoes filthy because of course the adventure wasn’t complete until my mother was mad about how grubby I had gotten. I was on one such adventure with my sister and a few of the other neighborhood children. We were swinging on trees in the wooden den and there had been a dilapidated couch put in there. Although it was in need of cleaning, the couch was a beautiful shade of forest green. I thought that it matched the woods perfect and that over time it might smell just as the pine trees did. In spite of my curiosity and wonder over the mysterious appearance of the furniture, I was a bit disgusted considering I didn’t know whose it was or how it had gotten there. We decided to take the cushions out and make a fort high up in the trees (at least high up for me, considering I was about three and a half feet tall). Half of us decided to join the group endeavor and the other half had already started up the trees, laughing and egging each other on. One half turned out to be more unfortunate than the other. The circle of kids surrounding the couch turned up the cushions and found something their innocent eyes could never have wanted to see. Trust me, I know from first hand experience. Our tiny hands found a whole stack of magazines. They were full of women in provocative poses and clothing, some with barely any clothes at all. I can admit, I wasn’t that freaked out by it, because I had older brothers and like I said, they were vulgar. The other girls around my age saw them and ran away screaming, “I’m gonna tell my mom!” Some girls even ran away screaming bloody murder. Others just said, “That’s a naked lady” and looked on with the wide eyed surprised children are known for. After the incident, I had my suspicions about who owned the magazines and who would leave them in a couch for small children to find.
The possibilities were endless. I felt like a miniature Sherlock Holmes trying to find the villain who thinks they’ve gotten away with the perfect crime. My number one suspect was one of the ladies who lived in the apartments to the right of our house. Her name was April and she was a curious character. For as long as I have known she has lived in the same apartment, always riding around town on her rusty red moped. I reckon that she has lived there even longer than that. I became to doubt April’s intentions because of a few clues. She lived alone with her cat and she had just broken up with her girlfriend. As far as clues go, I didn’t have much to go on besides
stereotypes. When you’re wandering around in the woods, be sure to watch out for the unwanted human nature that can be found just as much as mother nature.
As the years went on, I always remembered finding those magazines and the loss of the unfortunate children’s purity. I remember it to the point of bringing it up to my sister and brother. My sister said she remembers and still finds it hilarious like she did back then (she was one of the kids looking on in vague interest). When I talked to my brother, he told me the magazines were his and a few neighborhood kids. This revelation finally solved the case, and gave me a good laugh from the phrase I conducted, “community
pornography”.