Learning Goal: For this blogpost, you will bring a picture from home and then write a paragraph (s) describing the picture. In your paragraph (s), you might write about the story behind the picture, what it makes you feel, or anything the picture brings to mind.
Success Criteria:
-Thoughtful Picture/Displayed on your blog
-Use of descriptive language/words
-Interesting/Engaging ideas
-Supporting details
-SPG
Here are a couple examples:
This picture is of my father, Byron, at my sister’s wedding reception. He casually sips a cup of his preferred beverage, black coffee. My father is calm and relaxed on the day he hands his youngest daughter off to be married. The man is unflappably levelheaded and cool; he’s not overcome with emotion by the significance of this day. He’s a rock. He’s my rock. When I’ve behaved foolishly, when I’ve lost jobs, when I’ve been much less than I should have been, he’s reassured me with his calm demeanor. When I’ve accomplished something noteworthy, when I’ve earned and maintained success, when I myself was married, I have been met with a simple, composed congratulatory smile. He laughs often (he loves to joke), but I’ve never seen him cry, not once. If I were to see him cry, I might crumble in panic. He views the world through eyes that have seen it all: good times, bad times, life, death, war, and peace. The relaxed, impenetrable composure plainly written on his sixty-year-old face assures me that everything will work out somehow.
41 to 3, 52 to 7, 39 to 5—our losses were atrocious and humiliating. They were terribly inept basketball players led by a dreadfully incompetent coach. Somehow, I was roped into coaching the Blue Ridge Knights seventh grade girls basketball team. “How difficult can this be?” I reasoned. We were undersized and uncoordinated. Passes errantly sailing out of bounds, balls dribbled off shoes, lay-up shots that inexplicably never even grazed the rim—we were a miserable sight. There were some games where I just wanted to cower under the scorers’ table and pretend this nightmare wasn’t happening. But there was one thing we could do capably, foul! We were a scrappy bunch, scuffling for every loose ball, brawling for every rebound, clawing the ball out of the arms of baffled opponents. I’ll never forget the sight of little Lauren Altman, all 4 ½ feet and 75 pounds of her, wrestling another team’s enormous, burly center to the ground. She came out of the scuffle with a skinned knee, a bloody lip, a satisfied smile, and the ball. That was my team! We may have only won one game the entire season, but we fought like champions.
41 to 3, 52 to 7, 39 to 5—our losses were atrocious and humiliating. They were terribly inept basketball players led by a dreadfully incompetent coach. Somehow, I was roped into coaching the Blue Ridge Knights seventh grade girls basketball team. “How difficult can this be?” I reasoned. We were undersized and uncoordinated. Passes errantly sailing out of bounds, balls dribbled off shoes, lay-up shots that inexplicably never even grazed the rim—we were a miserable sight. There were some games where I just wanted to cower under the scorers’ table and pretend this nightmare wasn’t happening. But there was one thing we could do capably, foul! We were a scrappy bunch, scuffling for every loose ball, brawling for every rebound, clawing the ball out of the arms of baffled opponents. I’ll never forget the sight of little Lauren Altman, all 4 ½ feet and 75 pounds of her, wrestling another team’s enormous, burly center to the ground. She came out of the scuffle with a skinned knee, a bloody lip, a satisfied smile, and the ball. That was my team! We may have only won one game the entire season, but we fought like champions.
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