This is my first compostion for Freshman Composition 1.  The assignment was to write about a place important to you as a child and to write from the perspective of you, the adult, and you, the child.

     The imagination of one’s childhood holds dear in the hearts of many as a consolation through life’s hardships. Reminiscing over old, fond memories can bring comfort to oneself. Children effortlessly bring themselves into imaginary worlds by occasionally turning real life events into a fantasy. By doing so, the balance between real life and fantasy keeps a sense of tranquility in a child’s life. Nowadays, I find myself wishing I had the creativity that once thrived in my young mind. The capability of detouring life into a completely different mind set is greatly missed. The innocence from which childhood stands dwells in the fortresses that we create.

     As a child my grandparents’ house was my fortress. In a desolate area of my grandparents’ yard resides an area where my childlike imagination once flourished. Cornered by a fence except for one side, an area of leaves, twigs, grass and a dirt ground was home to my siblings and me. Tar-like tiles secretly retrieved from the musky cellar were piled in a rectangular form as beds. Sleeping never actually happened on our crude bedding. Cement blocks resembling a stove sat against a fence that ran parallel to the road. A log which was used as a couch set adjacent to our make-shift stove. Occasionally, a pretend fire made up twigs and dry leaves was built upon the stove. Berries that we found in a nearby bush were mashed on the cement blocks. Never were the berries consumed, but the excitement that we were “living in the wild” never ceased. The one side without a bordering fence was our entrance into our humble abode and our exit out toward the unknown world.

     The time machines of our mind turned us back hundreds of years. I, the authority figure, would lead my siblings in an innocent scandal that my young mind created. As a child the mind is an amazing thing. Creativity prospers upon the realm of our imagination. An isolated area such as the one we deeply favored could easily be transformed from a fort in the Civil War to a cabin on a pirate ship. Some days I led an expedition across vast prairie lands. Our secretive corner became a covered wagon on the Oregon Trail. We made went along our rough journey, hoarding stones, sticks and other random things found in nature. Our playset which still lies directly behind our log couch housed many journeys to outer space. The rickety slide became a chute which we used to land on the moon. My brother as commander swung so our rocket would blast off. My sister and I kept our eye out to ward off evil aliens. We were oblivious to the world around us. We were young, careless and happy.

     Today when my eyes rest upon our immature habitat, a ghost town is brought before me. Twigs, leaves and various debris cover our secret retreat. Barely visible, the cement block stove is still against the fence and the log couch and tar tile beds still remain. Occasionally when I revisit, I shuffle the fragments of nature to show the once gleaming dirt floor. I believe my childhood innocence is swept away each time this maneuver is performed. I hope fragments of my imagination remain with me as I grow wiser in my years. As I survey the area nostalgia clouds over as memories rain down in my mind.