Descriptive Essay On Comfort

A Simple Comfort The comfort of sitting in our nice warm home in Sauk Rapids is very satisfying. Although my house brings me much luxury, another setting makes me feel very at home. Internet use, city water, a comfortable bed, and 100 miles differentiate the two places, but the environment I am in, the people I am with, and the things I do at the deer shack give me a particular kind of comfort. Sitting in my deer stand on the evening of rifle-hunting opener I was thinking about how much I wanted to rush out of the cold November weather and into our cozy little deer shack.
I hurry out of my deer stand and race against the cold to the shack. The short walk from my stand to the shack is quick because no deer were shot tonight. Leaves crunch

This was my first actual construction project, and I was proud of it. The shack has a rectangular-shaped base, with half the building being the garage and half being the living area. Looking at the shack now it does seem like much, but the little grey house’s appearance is not as meaningful as the purpose it serves.
As I near my destination, my pack and gun become heavier with each step. I hear the mumble of talking from inside the little house, and I take my last breath of the fresh autumn air before I open our garage door to warmth. Now, starting to get feeling in my hands, I set my stunning new Tikka rifle back in its case. Our garage consists of many shelves, a fourwheeler, a few hanging deer ready to be cut up, and miscellaneous junk laying on the floor. Looking to my left in the garage I see the big brown deer hanging next to me. Memories of the big eight pointer I killed that morning flow into my mind. My dreaming is interrupted though, as a whiff of dinner sneaks to my nose. I finish unpacking my cold equipment and then turn towards the door of the living

Dad has a knack for cooking at the shack as I do not recall one lousy meal I have eaten here. I step to the bedroom and take off the majority of my layers of clothing quickly so I can join the rest of the group. My dad serves me a plate and I start eating the tender meat as I sit down on the snug couch.
I listen to our hunting party’s stories from the evening as I finish up my meal. My brother challenges me to a game of darts as my uncle and dad continue some conversation about a hunting story. Between the thumps of darts striking the board, I catch parts of stories: someone making fun of something, a misfortune of a nonfunctional bullet, a costly mistake by a shooter. The close game nears an end, as I need only a three to win and mockingly smile as my final dart strikes its