Personal Story of a High School Student Essay Example For Students

Personal Story of a High School Student Essay It was another wonderful autumn day in southern Minnesota. It was a Friday in September. The warm weather was starting to fade, as it always does in Minnesota, but there was football to be played that night, plus it was the eve of my 16th birthday. I was particularly excited, because in my family owning a car was not a privlege, it was a momentous step showing who that person is. When you drive that car on your own for the first time, it is a sign of manhood. My father is one of the hardest working people Ive ever known. He is a mechinic and has been since he turned 22. Before that he owned many cars that he had built and raced by himself. One of the biggest thing he taught me was the satisfaction from doing something yourself makes it even better. As any boy does at one time, just being with my father and being able to watch him work is one of the fondest memories I have. My father has an eleborate garage that can easily fit three cars wide plus he has two hoists to lift the cars. I have worked on many things in the garage: my go-kart, dirtbike, snowmobiles, and countless other objects some kids only dream of. It was about the second week in September, I was going to school in Wisconsin, and we were playing against Minnesota Schools. We werent a very skilled class when it came to football, I think we were like 1-5 at the time, but every week, even though we would probably lose, we were so excited to be the talk of the school and couldnt wait to play. It was, once again, the best part about the fall playing football just talking to the other guys, wearing the same jerseys at school. Even if you didnt care for them it still felt like you were best of friends. Then came the end of the day when you become even more excited, because you know in a couple hours you would be suiting up and playing what could possibly be your last game. I was excitied to play, but being the starting tight end in a football team that ran the ball ninety percent of the time is not the funnest thing. I was really looking forward to that night, especially after the game. We were going to go out and party for my birthday, I couldnt wait. The game came and went and we got crushed again, but I didnt care, we were used to it. That night I had something like five of my closest friends over, and we did many things fifteen and sixteen year olds did. Stayed up late playing video games, drinking pop and just having a good time. The next morning was probably one of the most vivid day about my childhood. Some of the guys left around nine in the morning and then I took the rest home in my dads Jeep. My dads Jeep was a wrangler with a five speed, one of the most exciting things to drive with a short-wheel base. You can drift any turn you want to. I drove one of my friends to Winona to see his girlfriend, and the other one to his house in Onalaska Wisconsin. The drive from Winona to Wisconsin in the fall is one of the most beautiful drives the midwest has to offer. The colors are changing from green to red, almost as if the bluffs were on fire, and it reflects off the Mississippi River. After dropping him off, I made my way home driving reckless and taking every backroad I could find. I got home probably around two, two-thirthy. My father came up to me in an abnormallly, quick, and excitied pace, almost jogging he said we have to go. Surprised and confused I wanted to question it, but figured, what the hell, its my birthday. So of course we just left. It wasnt to far until we got out of town where they have auctions. Out front, I saw one of the coolest cars Ive ever seen. It had seen better days. The paint was coming off, the roof was smashed in three places, the back windshield was gone, and the interior was even worse. .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .postImageUrl , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:hover , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:visited , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:active { border:0!important; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:active , .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924 .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .ub968216bb2356278534b6c0a8ec50924:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Susan B. Anthony EssayThe only part that was still in the car that was left in tact was the seat, and that bench seat was ready to go. You could see the ground through the floor. The dash was all torn up and the trunk-well that was mostly gone. To me though I could see everything that this car had previously been. I could see someone elses dream that came to life, but now it had spent to long rusting and losing life. I said to my Dad, before he told me why we where there, I said that seventy two Chevelle needs a little work, but whoever bought it has one hell of a car. We walked in the building, expecting to see farm equipment and small farm toys. An older man came up to us and handed me a piece of paper and said, congratulations. Being a shy kid, I just said thank you curiously opening the folded piece of paper. I just wanted to run outside and jump in my new car. My eyes lit up brighter than those of a little kid for Christmas. I ran out to the car, and looked at my dad and said really, really I dont know what to say. We had to tow it home, and I spent the rest of the day working on the car. Around five oclock I sat down in my yard and just stared at it, not trully seeing all the work that needed to be done, but just admiring this beautiful piece of machinery. I could see it the way I already would have it built. Slammed on the ground, the loudest and biggest motor I could find for it,and every line and the flat black color that would be on it. The car looked bad to most people it should have been sent in for scrape metal, but not to me. I spent countless hours on getting it just the way I wanted it, and I dont care what other people say about it. To me the funnest part about cars is the fact that you can build it anyway you want. There will always be people out there that will like it. I found all the parts I wanted for it and started assembling it the way I want it. To me the car is perfect even thoough to many it should look like it originally did, but others just stare at me and wish they could own something like it. In my family cars arent just a way to get from place to place, they are a way of life and the car that you take there is a statement of the person that you are. It shows the pride you put into it the dedication, hardwork, sweat, and blood. Even tho other people take pride in there houses, wealth, and other material things, this is my families.