Baseball and Bunnies in the forest

During November, Jennifer Robbins’ seventh grade English Language Arts students read many examples from published writers that use strong sensory details. Then, they wrote their own sensory scenes, imitating the mentor texts but using their five senses to paint pictures for their readers and create their own memorable moments. Here are two strong examples of their Sensory Scenes...

I’ve spent a lot of time at the baseball fields, either just hitting baseballs with friends or playing a high intensity game. When I was younger, time at the baseball fields seemed to be illusionary and extended. Now when I’m at the baseball field, time just seems to fly right by. The baseball field sometimes even feels like a second home to me.

Always: the sound of cleats as they hit the cold brown rocky dirt. Always: the ting of the metal bat as the bright red and white ball flies through the crisp cool air. Always: the rich taste of dill pickle sunflower seeds as they crack in my mouth. Always: the loud clapping noise of the catcher’s glove after the pitcher hurls the baseball through the thick air. Always: the clicking noise as players walk throughout the small dark blue wood dugout, spitting sunflower seeds all over the cold gray pavement. Always: the sound of popcorn popping as the sweet toasty smell fills the damp air. Sometimes I can even smell the sweet savory smell of that toasty popcorn in my dreams.

Always: the feeling of sticky grip tape as I walk up to the outlined batters box. Always: the crowd chanting as I step up to the dirt-covered plate. Always: the cheering as I smash the ball into the gap and sprint around the white bases. Always: bragging to friends the next day about how we beat their team.

There were a lot of always. Even today, the sound of cleats hitting cold gray pavement repeats through my mind every time I step onto the bright green baseball field.

— Easton Corbett

144 Birch Road was my address for a very long time. From the day I took my first breath to now as I write this. Twelve and a half years, although it feels like 112.

These are the days that I will never forget and always cherish. 144, my home, and if the circumstances change, it will remain the same as it ever was — the place in which I find myself.

Always: The small little play house in the backyard; maybe rickety and abandoned but still a key to the past. Always: The light fall of the autumn leaves as the world prepares for the upcoming cold. Always: the sun beaming through the window as I wake to the sweet summer morning. Always: hot chocolate on the dining room table as we prepare to pick the Christmas tree. Always: late movie nights, covered in soft, cozy blankets and cheerful laughs- sympathetic tears, too. Always: chatter ricocheting off the walls as my family sits and talks at the dining room table. Always: my dad stirring his dark, dark coffee in the morning sun.

Always: the family bunnies escaping and exploring the treacherous, scary forest … at least until we saved them. Always: pine tree aroma drifting throughout the house at Christmas time. Always: the glistening reflection of the trees on the murky pond. Always: foggy winter mornings sipping scalding hot chocolate, burning my throat.

There were a lot of always. But will they always exist forever?

— Grace Kinsella