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Descriptive Essay: Grandpa's Place

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Grandpa's Place


I know to take one last breath of fresh, clean air before I open the front screen door and then the faded, chipped white wood door. I walk in, and the blend of the aroma of apples and old people suffocates me. As I walk in, the same two-year old cat food is right where it has been for the last six months: in front of the front door on the cold faded tile floor. The cat disappeared four months ago, but I guess there is still hope that he will come back one day. I approach the sliding wooden door to enter the front living room and see some bird feed on the floor that must have been spilled the previous week along with a stack of news papers.

This single story brick house was purchased by my Grandma and Grandpa twenty years ago. Ever since, the house has been filled with nothing but love and laughter. Behind the house, there are five or six tall, skinny trees that have died from disease but haven't fallen to the grass covered ground. Near the loose clothes line in the back yard, there are four rose bushes that need water. Dead daises and pansies from the previous summer are the main attraction in the front yard along with a five foot high metal windmill stuck in the middle of a flower garden that needs grease. The two car garage houses a huge '78 black Buick. The ol' Buick hasn't been driven in a while, but my Grandpa claims that it is still in top shape. I guess my Grandpa just keeps it around to remind him of my Grandma. Next to it is a green John Deere tractor with a ripped black seat that has a flat left rear tire, but my Grandpa claims, "It still runs like a champ." Next to it is the push lawnmower.

Before I open the door, I can hear the Bronco game being televised on my Grandpa's 36"...


... middle of paper ...


...the same story about so and so and how their daughter's husband's brother did this and that. All this time, I just sit there and watch my Grandpa be happy telling me this story while he slops stuff out of his mouth and onto his already stained clothes. Eventually, we finish our dinner, and I clean up the kitchen.

I get all of my stuff together, make a final check that everything is good to go, and sit on a kitchen chair. My Grandpa asks sadly if it is time to go, and I say, "Yeah," with a quivering voice. So, I get up, give my Grandpa a hug and head out the door.

I hate leaving this place more than anything. I hate leaving my Grandpa in that house by himself. I push open the front door and breathe in the fresh night air. As I pull out of the narrow leaf covered driveway, I look back to see my Grandpa waving at me through the dirty storm glass windows.


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