BAD:
http://www.mtmultipleuse.org/endangered/endangered_species_act.htm
This is a website maintained by a group called "Montanans for Multiple Use." While there are some elements of effective argumentation, there are definite pitfalls. The site prevails upon the readers pathos with an entire section of stories, personal and otherwise, that explain the negative impact the Endagered Species Act has had on life and industry. Under the heading "ESA Reform," this section in particular allows the reader to see the negative impact of the ESA. However, this site lacks any ethos. No where does it have sponsoring groups, political leaders involved, or any idea of who is behind this movement besides the "irrate, tireless minority" referred to in the header quote by Samuel Adams. To me, language such as "WE FINALLY WON ONE AND IT IS ABOUT TIME," leads to more of a mistrust of the authors of the site. Overall, the language seems very unscientific to me as a biology major. Logos is somewhere in the middle, with definite evidence presented, but without ethos, it is difficult to trust any support of the ideas presented here.
GOOD:
http://www.nesarc.org/
While hard to navigate their site, this organiztion does what that last fail to - establish ethos right off the bat. They have a listing of supporters on their main page and on several of the linked pages they discuss other groups and politicians they have supporting their cause. Also, there is an entire page of op-eds and articles that have been contributed to by this cause. This leads to a more trusting embrace of their logos which is dotted throughout their webpage. The reform they propose is clearly outlined and reasons for each change are readily available. As well, the site appeals to the average reader with a section headed, "The ESA is incredibly complex.Get answers to your mostfrequently asked questions!" Although the pathos is less obvious, it is nonetheless obvious. Throughout the pages, the impact of the ESA is noted, with stories and hard facts.
I had a lot of trouble finding video/photo commentary on this issue.
BAD: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VME9cGkm_TA
This video is very funny, but does not, once again, give any ethos. The joking manner in which it approaches the issue almost makes me as the viewer trust its integrity even less. The pathos is definitely there with cute fuzzy animals, but it lacks some logos as well.
GOOD:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1tI8szusZA
While I obviously did not watch the entire 1 hr. 28 min presentation, it has ethos in that it is a lecture series given at UC Santa Barbra by professors and leaders in environmental fields. As for logos, almost any lecture given by a professor is going to have logos - we love logos! However, as it is more of a review of the past 30 years of the ESA, it definitely lacks some pathos. It is a good review on the past and a look at what can be done.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Cradle to Cradle
This piece is another that does a great job of taking part not only in the solution, but also in the blame. The authors have a rapport with any reader knowing of the company they run trying to find more environmentaly friendly, sometimes off the wall strategies for approaching everyday life. Companies can even get cradle to cradle awards for being especially eco-friendly/innovative. In this exerpt, the authors manage to convey ideas that some may look at as inveasable and show that they can, in fact, be acheived. They do this by admitting that it seems like it cannot be done, then going on to explain not only how it can be done, but also the benifits, as it is with the garden rooftops. This writing contains a lot of stories of successes the authors have had - every person likes proof of a working model. Overall, a more friendly tone is taken - a lot of collective we's are used. The metaphor of the cherry tree is powerful in showing that there is a way to create useful waste if we would just stop being comfortable in what we do. As well, the inclusion of small seemingly insignificant facts such as the biomass of ants leads to meaningful facts such as though ants have a much larger biomass, they have almost no negative impact on the Earth.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monbiot
Monbiot has received many awards for his work. There is no doubt that he is a source to be trusted, having recieved a United Nations Global 500 Award for outstanding environmental achievement presented by Nelson Mandella. He is an intellegent guy. His sucess lies not only within the environmental field, but many others.
However, Monbiot knows his audience. He knows what people have heard about global warming, what they don't believe, what they don't understand, and what they are just tired of hearing about. Monbiot begins and ends this chapter with his discussion of Faust. This is to draw the reader in, to make them interested in what he is about to say. Also within this metaphor we can realize what we feel about Faust before we realize Faust is representing human kind.
The introduction begins with a story which is self-effacing. It shows that Monbiot, for all of his awards and acclaim, is very humble and willing to call himself hypocritical and point out that he does not know everything. He allows us to know that he doesn't want everyone to go back to running the Earth in loin cloths - which immediatly disarms the reader and quelches any feeling that they are about to be judged. He points out where he falls short - he points out that he is one part in the collective we which, if not checked, will drive this planet to destruction.
While maintaining this feeling - as if you are talking to a collegaue, Monbiot throws in an extreme amount of research and a general feeling that he knows his stuff. Just his preface of the research to come in the intro allowed the reader a glimpse into how much time and frustrations were spent fashioning this book. He quotes reliable, yet easily accesible works such as Nature and Science.
The author does a good job of revisiting the impact of the small change in temperature. While it is easy to think it is not a big deal since day to day can differ by this much, Monbiot does a great job of repeatedly hitting the importance of it. He also drives home the point that this was our doing as industrialized nations. We like to push the blame onto others, but Monbiot becomes "one of us" and brings the blame with him.
However, Monbiot knows his audience. He knows what people have heard about global warming, what they don't believe, what they don't understand, and what they are just tired of hearing about. Monbiot begins and ends this chapter with his discussion of Faust. This is to draw the reader in, to make them interested in what he is about to say. Also within this metaphor we can realize what we feel about Faust before we realize Faust is representing human kind.
The introduction begins with a story which is self-effacing. It shows that Monbiot, for all of his awards and acclaim, is very humble and willing to call himself hypocritical and point out that he does not know everything. He allows us to know that he doesn't want everyone to go back to running the Earth in loin cloths - which immediatly disarms the reader and quelches any feeling that they are about to be judged. He points out where he falls short - he points out that he is one part in the collective we which, if not checked, will drive this planet to destruction.
While maintaining this feeling - as if you are talking to a collegaue, Monbiot throws in an extreme amount of research and a general feeling that he knows his stuff. Just his preface of the research to come in the intro allowed the reader a glimpse into how much time and frustrations were spent fashioning this book. He quotes reliable, yet easily accesible works such as Nature and Science.
The author does a good job of revisiting the impact of the small change in temperature. While it is easy to think it is not a big deal since day to day can differ by this much, Monbiot does a great job of repeatedly hitting the importance of it. He also drives home the point that this was our doing as industrialized nations. We like to push the blame onto others, but Monbiot becomes "one of us" and brings the blame with him.
Monday, January 19, 2009
No Love For the Dairy Air? (Final Draft)
Brianna
Eng. 308J
No Love for the Dairy Air?
A beautiful sun sets among a pink, blue, and purple sky, the colors consuming the skyline. The sun seems big, close enough to touch as it ducks behind the old, white, chipping barn. To the left is a small wood where childhoods were spent plotting survival tactics and was always the place to run from angry parents. Across the road is an empty field, empty in the sense that there are no buildings for half a mile, yet full in the sense that trees are growing in rows. The government pays a man down the road not to farm this land and to let trees grow. This all occurs what seems like two hundred yards away, just on the other side of the cornfield which blocks the sunset in the height of summer and creates a beautiful mirror in the snowy frigid winters.
This was my playground. This was my booming metropolis. I grew up with about fifteen corn or soybean fields within a mile of me. The white barn was home to a herd of bleating sheep, always anxious to remind you of their presence. A mile up the county road, or “busy-road” as I grew up calling it, was a farm with four horses, all brown with a white diamond on their heads, all with white socks crawling up their legs. It was those horses which I first fell in love with. I loved watching them gallop the length of their fence in the summer and huddle together in the winter so closely that the only way to tell one from another was to look for the trail of condensed air escaping from their snorting noses, reminiscent of a Franz Marc picture in live color.
And since this was my playground, I took it for granted. It was not until the ripe age of nineteen, when I first stepped foot on a college campus that I realized that every school district in the country did not get a day off of school to go to the county fair. Apparently they also could not get excused absences to go hunting on the first day of deer hunting season. Along with these differences, I began to learn what a unique childhood I had. The majority of people I met in college grew up in the city – they could not possibly share my love for farmland, just as I could not share their love for architecture. Agriculture is where I come from. I may not live on a farm, but country air still fills my lungs.
That is why we all laughed when the sign went up, amazed that someone would actually feel the need to post it. My family had lived there, in the shallow country side dotted by small towns, for twenty-five years. Why, at this point, was it necessary to nail this aluminum sign to a telephone pole?
“CAUTION: This land has been zoned for agriculture! With some uses come smells, dust, and noise! Please consider this when moving near.” Our general first reaction was all the same – shock. We all knew that every time a window was thrown open, the car air conditioner switched on, every time we stepped out of the door, there was a distinct chance of nostrils being filled with the aroma of cow dung, mixed with water and spread on the fields. My parents explained to me at a young age that this was called “manure” and that it was spread on fields to help things grow.
However, whenever we smelled this sour reek, laced with a certain sweetness only country air can bring, one of us would scream, as only angelic adorable children can, “WHO FARTED?! JARED FARTED AND IT STINKS!” This was one of our favorite ways to perplex my poor parents. With all of our childhood games, it remains, as I said, covalently linked into my DNA. It is as potent as the smell of home when you have been away. When school gets to be too much, I drive into the countryside of Athens, Ohio, partially just to drive, but partially to fill my lungs with that smell. The smell of hay and manure and life. It is my drug, my comfort, my love.
Why then, must a sign be posted to warn against it? Because the farmers that tilled that land, that poured their time, sweat, and toil into that land owned about seven fields throughout our area and were told that if they did not warn the people living in proximity to their fields of the dangers of living near agriculture, they could be sued. They could be sued for not “disclosing” this information. As if this smell, this use of the land were not natural. As if signs needed to be posted outside of Chicago that read, “CAUTION: This area is zoned for city use. With some uses come smog, carcinogens, and noise! Please consider when moving into this area.” Is it fair for us to decide that carbon emissions smell better than manure and hay? This is not to say that the city is bad. It has been the heart and epicenter of America since the Industrial Revolution. This is to say that the country is necessary. To say that the country is not an inconvenience, something to be “expanded” into. To say that though the city is necessary and beautiful in its own ways, sustainability can be learned from those occupying its borders.
It was when that sign was posted that I realized the countryside was not only my home, but something sacred, something in need of protection. We, in being gifted with the beauty and majesty of the outdoors, have also been bestowed with the responsibility to protect it. Without this land that can so easily be viewed as open and waiting to be built upon, America would lose some richness and I would lose a piece of myself.
Eng. 308J
No Love for the Dairy Air?
A beautiful sun sets among a pink, blue, and purple sky, the colors consuming the skyline. The sun seems big, close enough to touch as it ducks behind the old, white, chipping barn. To the left is a small wood where childhoods were spent plotting survival tactics and was always the place to run from angry parents. Across the road is an empty field, empty in the sense that there are no buildings for half a mile, yet full in the sense that trees are growing in rows. The government pays a man down the road not to farm this land and to let trees grow. This all occurs what seems like two hundred yards away, just on the other side of the cornfield which blocks the sunset in the height of summer and creates a beautiful mirror in the snowy frigid winters.
This was my playground. This was my booming metropolis. I grew up with about fifteen corn or soybean fields within a mile of me. The white barn was home to a herd of bleating sheep, always anxious to remind you of their presence. A mile up the county road, or “busy-road” as I grew up calling it, was a farm with four horses, all brown with a white diamond on their heads, all with white socks crawling up their legs. It was those horses which I first fell in love with. I loved watching them gallop the length of their fence in the summer and huddle together in the winter so closely that the only way to tell one from another was to look for the trail of condensed air escaping from their snorting noses, reminiscent of a Franz Marc picture in live color.
And since this was my playground, I took it for granted. It was not until the ripe age of nineteen, when I first stepped foot on a college campus that I realized that every school district in the country did not get a day off of school to go to the county fair. Apparently they also could not get excused absences to go hunting on the first day of deer hunting season. Along with these differences, I began to learn what a unique childhood I had. The majority of people I met in college grew up in the city – they could not possibly share my love for farmland, just as I could not share their love for architecture. Agriculture is where I come from. I may not live on a farm, but country air still fills my lungs.
That is why we all laughed when the sign went up, amazed that someone would actually feel the need to post it. My family had lived there, in the shallow country side dotted by small towns, for twenty-five years. Why, at this point, was it necessary to nail this aluminum sign to a telephone pole?
“CAUTION: This land has been zoned for agriculture! With some uses come smells, dust, and noise! Please consider this when moving near.” Our general first reaction was all the same – shock. We all knew that every time a window was thrown open, the car air conditioner switched on, every time we stepped out of the door, there was a distinct chance of nostrils being filled with the aroma of cow dung, mixed with water and spread on the fields. My parents explained to me at a young age that this was called “manure” and that it was spread on fields to help things grow.
However, whenever we smelled this sour reek, laced with a certain sweetness only country air can bring, one of us would scream, as only angelic adorable children can, “WHO FARTED?! JARED FARTED AND IT STINKS!” This was one of our favorite ways to perplex my poor parents. With all of our childhood games, it remains, as I said, covalently linked into my DNA. It is as potent as the smell of home when you have been away. When school gets to be too much, I drive into the countryside of Athens, Ohio, partially just to drive, but partially to fill my lungs with that smell. The smell of hay and manure and life. It is my drug, my comfort, my love.
Why then, must a sign be posted to warn against it? Because the farmers that tilled that land, that poured their time, sweat, and toil into that land owned about seven fields throughout our area and were told that if they did not warn the people living in proximity to their fields of the dangers of living near agriculture, they could be sued. They could be sued for not “disclosing” this information. As if this smell, this use of the land were not natural. As if signs needed to be posted outside of Chicago that read, “CAUTION: This area is zoned for city use. With some uses come smog, carcinogens, and noise! Please consider when moving into this area.” Is it fair for us to decide that carbon emissions smell better than manure and hay? This is not to say that the city is bad. It has been the heart and epicenter of America since the Industrial Revolution. This is to say that the country is necessary. To say that the country is not an inconvenience, something to be “expanded” into. To say that though the city is necessary and beautiful in its own ways, sustainability can be learned from those occupying its borders.
It was when that sign was posted that I realized the countryside was not only my home, but something sacred, something in need of protection. We, in being gifted with the beauty and majesty of the outdoors, have also been bestowed with the responsibility to protect it. Without this land that can so easily be viewed as open and waiting to be built upon, America would lose some richness and I would lose a piece of myself.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
No Love for the Dairy Air? (Rough Draft)
Brianna
Eng. 308J
No Love for the Dairy Air?
A beautiful sun sets among a pink, blue, and purple sky, the colors consuming the skyline. The sun seems big, close enough to touch as it ducks behind the old, white, chipping barn that has always been there and fifty feet from that stands a white farm house. To the left is a small wood where childhoods were spent plotting survival tactics and was always the place to run from angry parents. Across the road is an empty field, empty in the sense that there are no buildings for half a mile, yet full in the sense that trees are growing in rows. The government pays a man down the road not to farm this land and to let trees grow. This all occurs what seems like two hundred yards away, just on the other side of the cornfield which blocks the sunset in the height of winter and creates a beautiful mirror in the snowy frigid winters.
This was my playground. This was my booming metropolis. I grew up with about fifteen corn or soybean fields within a mile of me. The white barn that had always been there was home to a herd of bleating sheep, always anxious to remind you of their presence. A mile up the county road, or “busy-road” as I grew up calling it, was a farm with four horses, all brown with a white diamond on their heads, all with white socks crawling up their legs. It was those horses which I first fell in love with. I loved watching them gallop the length of their fence in the summer and huddle together in the winter so closely that the only way to tell one from another was to look for the trail of condensed air escaping from their snorting noses, reminiscent of a Franz Marc picture in live color.
And since this was my playground, I took it for granted. It was not until the ripe age of nineteen, when I first stepped foot on a college campus that I realized that every school district in the country did not get a day off of school to go to the county fair. Apparently they also could not get excused absences to go hunting on the first day of deer hunting season. Agriculture is where I come from. I may not live on a farm, but country air still fills my lungs.
That is why we all laughed when the sign went up, amazed that someone would actually feel the need to post it. My family had lived there, in the shallow country side dotted by small towns, for twenty-five years. Why, at this point, was it necessary to nail this aluminum sign to a telephone pole?
“CAUTION: This land has been zoned for agriculture! With some uses come smells, dust, and noise! Please consider this when moving near.” Our general first reaction was all the same…”You think?” We all knew that every time a window was opened, a vent in the car opened, every time we stepped out the door, there was a distinct chance of nostrils being filled with the aroma of cow dung, mixed with water and spread on the fields. My parents explained to me at a young age that this was called “manure,” not poop, and that it was spread on fields to help things grow. This was also why we had to wash our vegetables before eating them.
However, whenever we smelled this sour reek, laced with a certain sweetness only country air can bring, one of us would scream, as only angelic adorable children can, “WHO FARTED?! JARED FARTED AND IT STINKS!” This was one of our favorite ways to perplex my poor parents. With all of our childhood games, it remains, as I said, covalently linked into my DNA. When school gets to be too much, I drive into the countryside of Athens, Ohio, partially just to drive, but partially to fill my lungs with that smell. The smell of hay and manure and life. It is my drug, my downer, my love.
Why then, must a sign be posted to warn against it? Because the farmers that tilled that land, that poured their time, sweat, and toil into that land owned about seven fields throughout our area and were told that if they did not warn the people living in proximity to their fields of the dangers of living near agriculture, they could be sued. They could be sued for not “disclosing” this information. As if everywhere should smell like the city. As if signs needed to be posted outside of Chicago that read, “CAUTION: This area is zoned for city use. With some uses come smog, carcinogens, and noise! Please consider when moving into this area.” Have we so taken over the land that we are to decide how the air smells? Are we so conceded as to think that those actually using the land, rotating crops without chemicals, are the enemy? Is it fair for us to decide that carbon emissions smell better than manure and hay?
Not to me. For me, the country is home. The air is sweet and clean and the stars are actually visible. It is foggier, the snow falls harder, and the rain smells cleaner. This is the norm. The loud horns and annoyed people zipping a thousand miles an hour, leaving carbon footprints the size of Sasquatch cannot decide that the air in the country smells “dirty.” That is my air, my home, my drug, my downer.
Eng. 308J
No Love for the Dairy Air?
A beautiful sun sets among a pink, blue, and purple sky, the colors consuming the skyline. The sun seems big, close enough to touch as it ducks behind the old, white, chipping barn that has always been there and fifty feet from that stands a white farm house. To the left is a small wood where childhoods were spent plotting survival tactics and was always the place to run from angry parents. Across the road is an empty field, empty in the sense that there are no buildings for half a mile, yet full in the sense that trees are growing in rows. The government pays a man down the road not to farm this land and to let trees grow. This all occurs what seems like two hundred yards away, just on the other side of the cornfield which blocks the sunset in the height of winter and creates a beautiful mirror in the snowy frigid winters.
This was my playground. This was my booming metropolis. I grew up with about fifteen corn or soybean fields within a mile of me. The white barn that had always been there was home to a herd of bleating sheep, always anxious to remind you of their presence. A mile up the county road, or “busy-road” as I grew up calling it, was a farm with four horses, all brown with a white diamond on their heads, all with white socks crawling up their legs. It was those horses which I first fell in love with. I loved watching them gallop the length of their fence in the summer and huddle together in the winter so closely that the only way to tell one from another was to look for the trail of condensed air escaping from their snorting noses, reminiscent of a Franz Marc picture in live color.
And since this was my playground, I took it for granted. It was not until the ripe age of nineteen, when I first stepped foot on a college campus that I realized that every school district in the country did not get a day off of school to go to the county fair. Apparently they also could not get excused absences to go hunting on the first day of deer hunting season. Agriculture is where I come from. I may not live on a farm, but country air still fills my lungs.
That is why we all laughed when the sign went up, amazed that someone would actually feel the need to post it. My family had lived there, in the shallow country side dotted by small towns, for twenty-five years. Why, at this point, was it necessary to nail this aluminum sign to a telephone pole?
“CAUTION: This land has been zoned for agriculture! With some uses come smells, dust, and noise! Please consider this when moving near.” Our general first reaction was all the same…”You think?” We all knew that every time a window was opened, a vent in the car opened, every time we stepped out the door, there was a distinct chance of nostrils being filled with the aroma of cow dung, mixed with water and spread on the fields. My parents explained to me at a young age that this was called “manure,” not poop, and that it was spread on fields to help things grow. This was also why we had to wash our vegetables before eating them.
However, whenever we smelled this sour reek, laced with a certain sweetness only country air can bring, one of us would scream, as only angelic adorable children can, “WHO FARTED?! JARED FARTED AND IT STINKS!” This was one of our favorite ways to perplex my poor parents. With all of our childhood games, it remains, as I said, covalently linked into my DNA. When school gets to be too much, I drive into the countryside of Athens, Ohio, partially just to drive, but partially to fill my lungs with that smell. The smell of hay and manure and life. It is my drug, my downer, my love.
Why then, must a sign be posted to warn against it? Because the farmers that tilled that land, that poured their time, sweat, and toil into that land owned about seven fields throughout our area and were told that if they did not warn the people living in proximity to their fields of the dangers of living near agriculture, they could be sued. They could be sued for not “disclosing” this information. As if everywhere should smell like the city. As if signs needed to be posted outside of Chicago that read, “CAUTION: This area is zoned for city use. With some uses come smog, carcinogens, and noise! Please consider when moving into this area.” Have we so taken over the land that we are to decide how the air smells? Are we so conceded as to think that those actually using the land, rotating crops without chemicals, are the enemy? Is it fair for us to decide that carbon emissions smell better than manure and hay?
Not to me. For me, the country is home. The air is sweet and clean and the stars are actually visible. It is foggier, the snow falls harder, and the rain smells cleaner. This is the norm. The loud horns and annoyed people zipping a thousand miles an hour, leaving carbon footprints the size of Sasquatch cannot decide that the air in the country smells “dirty.” That is my air, my home, my drug, my downer.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Williams rhetorical stratagies
In the snippets of 'An Unspoken Hunger' read for class, there was definite rhetorical strategies. In the story Erosion, Williams pulls the reader into the person of Kinji Kurumada then betrays the reader by taking away his son in a completely unexpected twist.
In Winter Solstice at the Moab Slough, however, Williams draws the reader in a different way - through description. "It is quiet and cold. The heat of the summer has been absorbed into the core of the redrocks." His description of not only the surroundings, but also the blue herons and the hawk and the emotions those creature conjure. The use of quotes also shows the reader that the love of this land is not only his, but a shared venture, as if each person who has visited is irreversibly tied by that fact. Finally, his comparison of nature and love bring a strong emotion in the reader.
In Yellowstone: The Erotics of Place, the author uses yet another strategy in wordplay, specifically that of 'ecosystem' and 'Echo System.' Also, the repetition of short, often fragmented sentences both at the beginning and end create a certain rhythmic cadence that draw the reader in. The personification of nature is also a very interesting approach - the use of 'pansexual' and 'erotic' in terms of the forest are new and interesting. In addition, Williams uses the universal 'we' in his story, not blaming, merely bringing up the issues 'we' need to remedy.
In Winter Solstice at the Moab Slough, however, Williams draws the reader in a different way - through description. "It is quiet and cold. The heat of the summer has been absorbed into the core of the redrocks." His description of not only the surroundings, but also the blue herons and the hawk and the emotions those creature conjure. The use of quotes also shows the reader that the love of this land is not only his, but a shared venture, as if each person who has visited is irreversibly tied by that fact. Finally, his comparison of nature and love bring a strong emotion in the reader.
In Yellowstone: The Erotics of Place, the author uses yet another strategy in wordplay, specifically that of 'ecosystem' and 'Echo System.' Also, the repetition of short, often fragmented sentences both at the beginning and end create a certain rhythmic cadence that draw the reader in. The personification of nature is also a very interesting approach - the use of 'pansexual' and 'erotic' in terms of the forest are new and interesting. In addition, Williams uses the universal 'we' in his story, not blaming, merely bringing up the issues 'we' need to remedy.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Waves of Memory
I jump in and out of the water as the waves dance upon the beach, leaving their short-lived traces in the wet sand. “Don’t let the white part hit you or you’re dead!” I scream at my brother as we run down the beach. Seagulls have, by this time, caught my attention. They stand together, squawking, looking for any morsel they can eat, whether edible or not. I tear after them, watching as they take flight and land somewhat gracefully upon the rolling waves.
As I grow beyond my seagull torturing phase, I still enjoy going to our cottage in Oscoda, Michigan, yet every few years my motivation changes. For a few years in junior high school my yearning for the cottage was not the glorious horizon, often picturesquely dotted with sailboats. It was not the sunset, the fiery sun being quenched by the waves. It was boys. The two down the beach from me to be specific.
I matured once again, moving past the boys and finally realizing the beauty the shoreline of Lake Huron holds. Countless nights were spent lying on the cold sand, one side near the fire, the other freezing cold, seeing stars more clearly than I ever have before. I have been to the white shores of Alabama and swam in the Atlantic Ocean, but in my mind, nothing compares to the beauty of the endless waters of Lake Huron.
As I grow beyond my seagull torturing phase, I still enjoy going to our cottage in Oscoda, Michigan, yet every few years my motivation changes. For a few years in junior high school my yearning for the cottage was not the glorious horizon, often picturesquely dotted with sailboats. It was not the sunset, the fiery sun being quenched by the waves. It was boys. The two down the beach from me to be specific.
I matured once again, moving past the boys and finally realizing the beauty the shoreline of Lake Huron holds. Countless nights were spent lying on the cold sand, one side near the fire, the other freezing cold, seeing stars more clearly than I ever have before. I have been to the white shores of Alabama and swam in the Atlantic Ocean, but in my mind, nothing compares to the beauty of the endless waters of Lake Huron.
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