Viracocha
Oct 29, 2006
Undergraduate / 'The cynic is one' - UA Essay [5]
Also, I was wondering if you could look over another essay, and compare it with the above. Both are options for the Common Application, and I've been trying to decide which to use. This was the first essay I wrote, but it kinda got put on the back burner as it seemed to fit the bland, lifeless archetype too well. I still have some concerns that the above essay (which I've included another draft of) is a bit too controversial, and I'm wondering if I should just stick with the less colorful but non-flammable choice. Any comments on how to spice up the below essay would be much appreciated, as I will probably end up using it for some of the colleges that require two essays. Thank you!
The shrill ring of the telephone echoed through the house, disturbing the silence of the afternoon. My mom was in the backyard cultivating near-ripe cucumbers and sprouting chives, so it was left up to me to end the unremitting ringing. I strolled to the machine, and reached it just before the answering machine.
"Yan?"
It was Pat, our elderly neighbor just across the street. "Yes?"
"I'm going to Oregon next week to visit my daughter, so would you mind watering my garden again?" Pat's garden is truly a masterpiece. Entering via a gravel sidewalk, rows of tomatoes and pumpkins inside a raised brick corral greet the visitor. To the right of the garden is a field of lush green grass (I don't know how they do it; ours is always more yellow than green), surrounded by a band of wood chips. A wood porch leads to the back door of the house. Positioned throughout are trees, bushes, vines, and dozens of potted flowers. My dad has often attempted to imitate this work of art, and his efforts have produced a gravel sidewalk and a brick-lined garden.
"Sure," I replied. "Same as last time?"
"Oh, there are a few new additions, but you should see them. I'm sure that you'll know what to water. It's mostly the same even after all these years."
Around eight years, now that I think back. Pat has always been close with her family, and often went on vacations to visit her children and grandchildren. From the first time that she asked me to irrigate her foliage, I've helped her whenever she felt the urge to leave. Her garden back then was just as beautiful as it is now, if missing a porch and a few flowers. Setting to work, I carefully (at least as careful as an eight year-old boy can be) watered the multitude of flora.
A week later when she returned from her trip, Pat insisted on giving payment for my services, but my mom returned the money. I was dumbfounded. Giving back money? To my eight-year old persona, ten dollars was a colossal sum. Then my mother explained to me the importance of helping others. When my parents first came to the US from Shanghai, they had little money and no possessions. Only through the generosity of neighbors who gave both furniture and aid were they able to endure. Now they were in the position to give back, and wished to instill in me a sense of charity.
Not to be deterred, and knowing my love of reading, Pat gave me a book. Soon after, another neighbor, Jeff, called to ask if I could take care of his dog while he went on vacation. When he later came to pay me, I returned the money myself. Every odd job I have done in the neighborhood since had become thus, although Pat always finds a hat, a wallet, or some other small trinket to show her appreciation.
"Alright then. Starting tomorrow?"
"Yes, dear. Thank you so much for this."
"No problem. Have fun in Oregon."
"Thank you, dear."
As we said our good-byes and I hung up the phone, a slow smile crept across my lips. I sat back a little, wondering what new items Pat had added to her garden.
Also, I was wondering if you could look over another essay, and compare it with the above. Both are options for the Common Application, and I've been trying to decide which to use. This was the first essay I wrote, but it kinda got put on the back burner as it seemed to fit the bland, lifeless archetype too well. I still have some concerns that the above essay (which I've included another draft of) is a bit too controversial, and I'm wondering if I should just stick with the less colorful but non-flammable choice. Any comments on how to spice up the below essay would be much appreciated, as I will probably end up using it for some of the colleges that require two essays. Thank you!
The shrill ring of the telephone echoed through the house, disturbing the silence of the afternoon. My mom was in the backyard cultivating near-ripe cucumbers and sprouting chives, so it was left up to me to end the unremitting ringing. I strolled to the machine, and reached it just before the answering machine.
"Yan?"
It was Pat, our elderly neighbor just across the street. "Yes?"
"I'm going to Oregon next week to visit my daughter, so would you mind watering my garden again?" Pat's garden is truly a masterpiece. Entering via a gravel sidewalk, rows of tomatoes and pumpkins inside a raised brick corral greet the visitor. To the right of the garden is a field of lush green grass (I don't know how they do it; ours is always more yellow than green), surrounded by a band of wood chips. A wood porch leads to the back door of the house. Positioned throughout are trees, bushes, vines, and dozens of potted flowers. My dad has often attempted to imitate this work of art, and his efforts have produced a gravel sidewalk and a brick-lined garden.
"Sure," I replied. "Same as last time?"
"Oh, there are a few new additions, but you should see them. I'm sure that you'll know what to water. It's mostly the same even after all these years."
Around eight years, now that I think back. Pat has always been close with her family, and often went on vacations to visit her children and grandchildren. From the first time that she asked me to irrigate her foliage, I've helped her whenever she felt the urge to leave. Her garden back then was just as beautiful as it is now, if missing a porch and a few flowers. Setting to work, I carefully (at least as careful as an eight year-old boy can be) watered the multitude of flora.
A week later when she returned from her trip, Pat insisted on giving payment for my services, but my mom returned the money. I was dumbfounded. Giving back money? To my eight-year old persona, ten dollars was a colossal sum. Then my mother explained to me the importance of helping others. When my parents first came to the US from Shanghai, they had little money and no possessions. Only through the generosity of neighbors who gave both furniture and aid were they able to endure. Now they were in the position to give back, and wished to instill in me a sense of charity.
Not to be deterred, and knowing my love of reading, Pat gave me a book. Soon after, another neighbor, Jeff, called to ask if I could take care of his dog while he went on vacation. When he later came to pay me, I returned the money myself. Every odd job I have done in the neighborhood since had become thus, although Pat always finds a hat, a wallet, or some other small trinket to show her appreciation.
"Alright then. Starting tomorrow?"
"Yes, dear. Thank you so much for this."
"No problem. Have fun in Oregon."
"Thank you, dear."
As we said our good-byes and I hung up the phone, a slow smile crept across my lips. I sat back a little, wondering what new items Pat had added to her garden.
