Personal Narrative-The White House

When I was young, I lived in a house in the small town of Richland. My house was white, hence it was always called “The White House”. We always had numerous neighborhood kids running about, because our house was caught in the middle between two apartment buildings. The summers were always beautiful, with the colors so vibrant. Our house was surrounded by Northern Catalpa trees. They had leaves that could be larger than your face and I always remember stacking them up in towers or pretending they were lily pads when it rained. I lived with my parents and my older brother and sister. We always used to roam around on our bikes and explore the woods that surrounded everything like a barrier. There was a little forest den that must have been cleaned
The possibilities were endless. I felt like a miniature Sherlock Holmes trying to find the villain who thinks they’ve gotten away with the perfect crime. My number one suspect was one of the ladies who lived in the apartments to the right of our house. Her name was April and she was a curious character. For as long as I have known she has lived in the same apartment, always riding around town on her rusty red moped. I reckon that she has lived there even longer than that. I became to doubt April’s intentions because of a few clues. She lived alone with her cat and she had just broken up with her girlfriend. As far as clues go, I didn’t have much to go on besides
As the years went on, I always remembered finding those magazines and the loss of the unfortunate children’s purity. I remember it to the point of bringing it up to my sister and brother. My sister said she remembers and still finds it hilarious like she did back then (she was one of the kids looking on in vague interest). When I talked to my brother, he told me the magazines were his and a few neighborhood kids. This revelation finally solved the case, and gave me a good laugh from the phrase I conducted, “community