As I approach the final turns to my grandparents house, my heart expands and fills with a peaceful warm-hearted magical sense of love. I grasp the handle to the window and lower the glass just enough that I feel the cool autumn breeze gently ruffle through my hair. I can hear the sound of the soft running water flowing down the stream banks of the rolling hills. Tree branches hang low over the shallow waters. The soft breeze sheds leaves of the oak tree falling softly to the surface of the stream, circular ripples flow downstream over the moss covered rocks that lead the way to the old willow tree were childhood traditions of skip rock were carried down from one generation to the next. In the distance, the sunrise glistens off the snow capped peaks that shadowed the country side where my uncle herds his cattle from the freshly grazed field. The smell of the grass, distinctive, and easily recognizable triggers fond memories of my grandparent 's house, which I call home. …show more content…
As dawn breaks in the dull morning sky, sunbeams cast down over the hill crest of the white pine trees. My grandparents house lays, tucked back along the side of a old dirt road. The mosaic morning colors begin to rise into the horizon, the sun rays peek through the tree tops and shine down, reflecting over the old rough cut lumber where my grandfather made our childhood tree house, sculpted by his bare hands. He branded his marks on each piece of the hand crafter lumber. The foundation of my childhood began here, the beginning of my independence. It was a place were my cousins and I could escape, a piece of freedom away from adults, where we bonded over board games, books, and the imagination of
Filban said the home had a yard that was overgrown. “The trees and bushes were overgrown, and the house was dark,” Filban said. “And the windows were covered.” She and her sister slept in the front bedroom of the house. She remembers the bedroom having a large, floor-to-ceiling window. She said you could look out and see the wra...
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
Marie’s grandparent’s had an old farm house, which was one of many homes in which she lived, that she remembers most. The house was huge, she learned to walk, climb stairs, and find hiding places in it. The house had a wide wrap around porch with several wide sets of stairs both in front and in back. She remembers sitting on the steps and playing with one of the cats, with which there was a lot of cats living on the farm...
It was finally fall break. I was visiting my grandma for a few days. Well past dinnertime, I pulled up to the white stately home in northern rural Iowa. I parked my car, unloaded my bag and pillow, and crunched through the leaves to the front porch. The porch was just how I had seen it last; to the right, a small iron table and chairs, along with an old antique brass pole lamp, and on the left, a flowered glider that I have spent many a summer afternoon on, swaying back and forth, just thinking.
Being raised in a small town lower classed city called Cleveland Texas, my goal was to make it out of the rural area. The blue house is what I called my childhood home, even though most of the blue paint was chipped off and you mostly seen wood with a few areas of chipped blue paint. Before, getting to the house you had to go about a half mile down a red dirt clay road before getting to what looked like a small blue shake. Living in the home was a total of ten people, which included myself, mother, father, three siblings and three older cousins that stayed with us at the time. There were three small bedroom that did not include any type of closet, a full sized bed, and two dressers with a small TV with the fat back attached to it. It also had
The familiar smell of soft cookies and homemade cooking are common thoughts when people think about their grandma's house. Great feasts and family gatherings play a part in everyone's grandmother's home. But when I really think about my grandma's house only one word comes to my mind: fun.
We slowly crept around the corner, finally sneaking a peek at our cabin. As I hopped out of the front seat of the truck, a sharp sense of loneliness came over me. I looked around and saw nothing but the leaves on the trees glittering from the constant blowing wind. Catching myself standing staring around me at all the beautiful trees, I noticed that the trees have not changed at all, but still stand tall and as close as usual. I realized that the trees surrounding the cabin are similar to the being of my family: the feelings of never being parted when were all together staying at our cabin.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
The air is really fresh, and the wind is comfortable. Grandma usually opened the window during the daytime; I still remembered that feeling when the sunshine came in house and scatter. I walking among those numerous grand trees and admire colored leaves on the trees and on the ground. I miss that feeling of calmness and stability of the world around. I wish I could return the reality of those feelings once more. Memories in mind and never forget about happiness of staying in my grandmother’s house. Grandparent’s time-honored gift to their grandchildren is their unconditional love, unfettered by schedules, routines or commitments. They reinforced their grandchildren’s sense of security and self-value.
When reminiscing about my childhood a home is hard to recall. It seemed common for others to have a place called home. Moving from house to house was not the problem, but the empty feeling. Home to me was my grandparent’s house. I spent nearly all of my childhood there. My grandparents bought the one story house with two bedrooms in the early seventies. From the spacious bedroom, to the kitchen with endless possibilities and the way I spent my time this house defined my character.
They say grandparents, are the two most favorite people in the world to children. Grandparents are the main characters of your childhood, they are the ones that leave you with the most beautiful memories of your life. Some grandparent’s teach you a very valuable lesson of life, they teach you respect, hard work, family values, and unlimited love. They show you their love in many ways, they say I love you in words as well as actions. Grandparents are the ones that sometimes get you out of trouble and guide you to the correct path. They show you trust, a trust that cannot never be broken.
“Home is where love resides, memories are created, friends always belong, and laughter never ends (Robot check).” A place becomes a home for me when I am around all the things that I enjoy and love. For example, when I am around everyone that I love, I enjoy a peaceful environment and the beautiful landscapes around me. The interpretation of home for me is not a physical thing that I see or that I can remember or even certain thoughts that I can relate, but it is a sensation that overcomes me when I envision being in the comfort of my own home. However, I know that this is a feeling that is calming to my soul and it quietly reassures me that I genuinely belong in a place where I can be free from people constantly judging me.
When I think back to the days when I was a child, I think about all of my wonderful childhood memories. Often I wish to go back, back to that point in life when everything seemed simpler. Sometimes I think about it too much, knowing I cannot return. Yet there is still one place I can count on to take me back to that state of mind, my grandparent’s house and the land I love so much.
As I approach the island on which my dream house awaits, I catch a quick
there is a tall fig plant that gives the room a feeling of life. On