<p>Some feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you!</p>
<pre><code>Every summer I visit my grandmother in Hungary, Malyi. She lives in a house that my parents built in 1993. The first week or two is always the most enthralling. Changing from the lifestyle in America that Im living now, and the lifestyle I would have been living if I did not immigrate.
There is a 9 hour time difference, so I was usually awake around 4 or 5 A.M. When I opened my eyes, I am always greeted by an open window, and a cool breeze revealing a beautiful painting of an early sky: colors of blue, purple, orange, yellow, red and even gold blending with each other. As soon as I get out of the bed, I go straight to the closet and put on my grandpas thick, heavy, old flannel, an ancient piece of clothing that has a unique scent to it, kind of like the aroma of the pages in an aging book. Slowly my body warms itself as I head downstairs and move through the fresh, crisp cold air to unlock the door and go outside. I am welcomed by the relaxing cooing of Mourning Doves nesting in the native silver pines in my back yard. I make my way to the garden bare foot, embracing the moist chilly dew running between my toes. I pass the rows of grape vines reminding me how my family used to make our own wine and store them in a cool cellar filled with the aroma of mold and mildew. I feel as if all is right with the world. I feel free to express myself in any way I want to. By this time, hunger strikes and like a bear in the woods, I begin munching on the raspberries growing in field. This is more of an appetizer, as my stomach becomes unsatisfied; I am forced to head inside to begin on a real breakfast. The food I eat her makes me feel so satisfied and not only literally but also in a different sense. Everything is locally and naturally produced, just like it was hundreds of years ago. The meat is from the village butcher, the eggs are from the chickens in the coop, the fruits and vegetables are from our field. The next step is to begin the days work.
Although it is extremely difficult labor, I help my grandma plow and shovel out the weeds in the field. Sweating, covered with dirt and mud, I think about how my ancestors did the exact same thing for hundreds of years. Committing to hard physical labor in return for food, or in other words, life. I feel exhilarated knowing that I am a part of a continuing tradition, it makes me feel rooted.
After working all morning, I take a brief nap, study a little for my next semesters classes, then get on my old beat up bike and take a ride through the village that my family has occupied for generations. Pedaling to the lake, I pass a railroad that cuts through the heart center of the town. Once at the lake, I exchange greetings with some old friends that know me because of the friendships created between our parents and grandparents. I pass a huge number of people taking refuge from the heat and make my way to a secret location of a swing rope someone had put up. I grabbed hold, pushed myself off the ground, swung a far as I could and finding that timing it perfectly where I am not going forward nor back, I let go and plunge into the water. My friend, Marcél, who was with me, was too frightened to attempt the swing. I grabbed both his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and talked him into it. He immediately realized that he should have tried it earlier; he fell in love with the thing in moments.
I hope that someday, I will be able to pass on to my own children the values and traditions I have grown up with as well as my love for the simple life my ancestors established. In doing so, the wheel continue and be passed on for generations to come.
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