By: John
Tenth Grade Scholar
[I was assigned to write an essay.
I knew exactly what I'd write
about.]
We all have things we hate. They stand in a guy's way or just annoy him. For you it could be a kind of food or a certain type of music. Your pet-hate might be different than mine, but we can all agree that they need to be eliminated from the face of the Earth. As I rise from my bed, I suddenly remember it's Saturday morning. I'm free to do whatever I please, whatever I want to do. The grueling school week is finally over! Maybe my brother and I will play football. Or, perhaps, I should continue to sleep. Yes, today will be perfect! "Kids, we're going to Scranton," my dad shouts up the stairs. I fall to my knees, put my palms on my head and topple until my head slams on the floor making the trademark, "Uughhh ... Scranton! thud. For those of you who don't know, Scranton is a large city in Northeastern Pennsylvania near New York state. It's where I was born. My family moved from the godforsaken place when I was 5 years old. We still have relatives up there, so once in a while we go to visit. It seems to cheer them up, reviving them from the bad-mood-spell that's put on them by Scranton. It's our service to the less fortunate. All seven of us (my mom and dad, my sisters, Lauren and Katie, my brothers, Mike and Chris and I) pile into the van. I brace myself for the hour and a half trek. Of course, my sisters bring two book bags stocked with "Video-Now" players, four dozen pencils and three million sheets of notebook paper. It further clutters the car signifying that we're going to Scranton. After about twenty rounds of "pull John's hair," we arrive in Wilkes-Barre, the warning beacon that we're about to enter Scranton. "Turn back," my mind pleads, but we avoid the signs of warning and continue driving. Eventually, we arrive in the city, hitting the welcome "giant bulge in the road." Everyone who lives in Scranton is in a bad mood. I can't blame them. They never see the sun. A layer of angry gray clouds always shrouds it. On top of that, well, technically below it, none of the sidewalks link together. You're actually lucky if you can find a sidewalk that hasn't been destroyed. Giant slabs of concrete jut up at you. Here in Palmyra, for the most part, the sidewalks are smoth. But there's really no need for concern about Scranton's sidewalks; the garbage shoved up against the cement cliffs acts as natural ramps. The amount of trash in the city makes me turn away from the car window. How can human beings survive in such an enyironment? On top of that, there's a 200 foot high bridge over my aunt's house that people jump off of. It's named Freedom Bridge. I can only assume that they jump because they can't stand Scranton and want to be freed. Another odd thing that I notice about Scranton, is that it's infested with old people; everywhere I turn - old people, down the street - old people, gathered on the corner - old people, around the corner making trash-ramps - old people. If someone were to load all the old people in Scranton on buses to the Atlantic casinos, they would probably amount to 85% of the population. Ship them to the moon and the social security problem would be solved. My dad's told me that the reason that Scranton's such an ugly town is because of its coal mining. Back when coal was the predominant fuel, Scranton was churning it out by the trainload. The mine owners actually lived in Maryland or Virginia, or some other spot away from Scranton. They toted the profits from the mines back to where they lived. Scranton had little money to fix itself up. My brother has this to say about Scranton, "if I could choose between going to Antarctica without my clothes or going to Scranton, I'd choose Antarctica." Should you someday arrive at Wilkes-Barre, heed the warnings, turn back from Scranton.
"As if things weren't bad enough, You are welcome to use or republish
any of our material.
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