Non-Fiction Narration Sample
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
1957. The dough is soft and pliable, absorbing warmth from my hands as I gently mold and shape it. It is my work, but my pleasure to anticipating the smiles of my Children knowing their tummies will be full and their hearts satisfied. The door opens and they burst in laughing, scolding and teasing each wanting to tell me a bit of what they have discovered about the world themselves or each other. I listened to each one as I serve panic and sweet tea mary. My firstborn tells of how the others wouldn't listen when called Jesse ran off to pick flowers and Tommy climbed up the big rock and fell. Tommy manfully frowns as I bandage his knee. Jessi smiles sweetly as she hands to me, buttercups, honeysuckle and daisies. My husband john stomps in with a grin. A string of fish held proudly in his hand. He lays them on a newspaper. I'll clean them later and sits with our Children to listen to their chatter, then winks at me and suggests that it is our turn to go for a walk in the cool fall air. My favorite time of the year, john's mom who lives next door, watches over our little ones. We know they are safe and content and will be spoiled just a bit. So we walk and talk and dream with each other of our future together of the new little one in my womb and our young family growing day by day a plane flies low overhead and we look up in awe. It's still a strange sight for us when they pass by and this one looks as if it will land quite near. We wonder idly what it's all about. Some visiting missionary perhaps, or a tourist wanting a guide to the best fishing spots. We class pans and run back to join in the excitement As we come in view of our house and our neighbors, the plane roars again overhead as the crowd below gazes skyward. People crying and clutching each other. I don't see my Children and I run inside. My mother in law lays on the floor, wailing in grief. Tommy hides in a corner, trembling with fear. Mary and jesse are gone, 1962. I gasped at the sound of a plane flying low overhead and the baby in my arms begins to cry. My anxious eyes seek for my son and I call him to come near with disdain in his voice and in his eyes he reminds me it is spring, not fall, and he is going to meet the ones who are returning. Perhaps his sisters will come home this time. His words thrust like a knife through my soul, and I struggle to my feet, knowing I cannot and must bear it again and alone this time as john is away in a sanatorium, sick with tuberculosis. I fear that he too may never come home. I must I must be strong for those who remain. I cannot see through the tears in my eyes, the faces of three little girls and four boys with their hair cut short and strange uniforms on. They huddle together hesitantly looking about family trying to find family that has changed over time. I am too weary to hope and I turn away to comfort and console the child in my arms. Tommy gives a shout, mary is here, my heart races and my knees grown weak. A neighbor takes my baby and another takes my arm as I stumble, half laughing and half crying towards the group of strangers waiting. I feel ashamed that I would not know my daughter's face if Tommy hadn't been holding on to her. I feel her stiffness as we embrace, and I can sense her fear, she whispers. I'm sorry and pulls away. It's like a strange dream where nothing is real. But one thing I need to know, I ask everyone around me one x 1. Where is Jesse? Where is Jesse? Where is she? The truth comes slowly. Or maybe it's just me that can take it in. No matter how many times The priest explained to me, it was late in january when flu hit the school, everyone got sick and some died. Your family was at your winter camp hunting and there was no way to get you the news. They buried her, of course, in a graveyard close to the school. The priest said he had wanted to deliver the news in person, but had been delayed and thought it best just to wait and tell us on the same day that mary returned. Wasn't it good she could come. They made an exception for her. They let her fly for free. On June 11, 2008, Prime Minister Stephen harper made an historic apology to the aboriginal people of Canada on behalf of the government of Canada for their 100 year long act of cultural genocide. There stated policy to kill the indian in the child.