I wiped my tired blue eyes as I stumbled down the steep wooden steps that creaked under the pressure of my callused summer feet. My matted, curly hair reeked of bonfire from the late night before. My nose was stuffy from sleeping in one of the humid upstairs bedrooms of my grandparent’s farmhouse. The thick, oak door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked when I pushed it open. As I turned left and shuffled into the bright yellow kitchen, I was hit hard with the smell of black coffee and burnt toast. My eyes confirmed it. There, on a brown oval shaped table sat two pieces of black toast covered with a half inch of butter and smothered with creamy peanut butter. I laughed to myself, knowing I better eat that crumbling brick my grandmother calls …show more content…
Half of the table consisted of my grandparent’s “important documents” such as my grandfather’s expired doe license from three years ago and my grandmother’s glossy new magazine with a hearing aid advertisement plastered on the front cover. The lazy susan was jam-packed with more junk mail and other really important items. Some of these included a plastic baggie of Splenda packets used only for grandfather’s daily oatmeal and my grandmother’s favorite: the saltshaker. The saltshaker reminded me of the shake-a-day jar that rested upon the obsolete milk machine on the west wall. When my mother was a child, real cow milk sputtered through the spout. Now, it houses my grandfather’s Bailey’s and my grandmother’s Diet Mountain Dew. Next to the milk machine rests a little metal cart. Atop the cart sits a decade old white microwave. A stale box of Lucky Charms always takes up space on the rickety cart. Every visit, my grandmother forces my kid brother and me to finish up the box. We look at each other with raised eyebrows and talk ourselves out of eating the soggy marshmallows that she calls …show more content…
My grandparent’s little yellow kitchen is my favorite place, not because it is adorable and old-fashioned, but because I have spent quality time with the best kind of people in their kitchen. My extended family has sat around that table and not only have we shared a meal, we have also shared the best stories of our lives. By the time I was ten, I had learned my fair share about farming, family, and faith. It was at this table where my Uncle Mike taught me how big an acre, a quarter, and a section of land are. It was at this table where my Grandpa O’Neill told me how he helped his brothers and sisters make it through the Great Depression. It was at this table where I learned how to pray the rosary from my Grandma O’Neill, something she does every single day. My grandparent’s kitchen is my favorite place because it is a place where I feel nothing but happiness. How can a person surrounded by golden yellow walls and warm, loving people not be
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...
My Grandma is one of a kind but, grandma would not be grandma without her house. She is one of a kind and so is that house. Built in 1972 my grandparents were the first ones to live in the house. My Grandma, Grandpa, uncle Tony, uncle Steve, and my mom, Angela, moved in. At this time the neighborhood was booming, it was the new neighborhood everybody wanted to live in. The neighborhood was called Plaza Towers and had a nice new school place in the middle called Plaza Towers, as well. My uncle Phillip was born while my grandma and grandpa lived there. This house watched all my uncles grow up, it watched my mom grow up. It has seen divorce and marriage, it has felt my uncles hit the walls, it has smelt my grandmas cooking, and been through one of the worst
The first and only time that my family moved, I was three-years-old. My parents bought a new house about four blocks away from our previous house. However, the new house was still being built, so my family moved in with my maternal grandmother – who lives about thirty minutes away – until the construction was completed a year later. Even though I was really young while we lived with my grandmother, some of my favorite childhood memories come from that year. My grandma’s house is a ten minute walk from the beach; a walk we would make at least once every
I met Dorothy thirteen years ago. Ever since anybody on North Liberty Street can remember, she and my grandmother have been best friends. That being said, I spent most of my childhood sitting in Dorothy’s kitchen eating peanut butter cookies. I was instantly comfortable with Jack and Dorothy, and it wasn’t very long until I made myself feel quite at home when we would visit. Two siblings and several years later, I found it “uncool” to spend time with my grandma and listen to Sunday’s gossip, so the visits became shorter until they were almost non-existent.
I sipped slowly on a cup of hot chocolate after the sun set, and pondered in my head what my first activity might be when I woke up in the morning. Should I build an impenetrable snow fort inspired by images of Minas Tirith? Or perhaps amass a pile of snowballs to use for the inevitable war that I would start with my sister. Quickly I became distracted by the beautiful, handcrafted wood which formed the dwelling. The rich orange and distressed brown mixed perfectly to create something so easy on the eyes, I had difficulty comprehending how it came to be. The smooth and flawless texture led me to run a hand over to test for splinters. The smell of the wood was intertwining with smells from the fireplace, the kitchen and my cup of hot chocolate. All of these sensations came together to form a feeling of tenderness, akin to a mother’s embrace. I never wanted to return back home. I had discovered a place so perfect, so inviting and peaceful, I vowed to never return to the familiarity of home. This was only the first day with vastly more to look forward
There are many wonderful people in the world. One of them is my grandmother, Phyllis Pelts. At the age of seventy-three, she continues to make her mark on the world. Standing only five feet tall, nothing can intimidate her. Phyllis, also known as Gran, is a widow and is currently on the road of recovery from a double knee replacement. Not even a double knee replacement can hold her down. She is strong and independant. Gran is always up to date despite her age. She is fashionable, enjoyable, and most importantly, caring.
I arrived at my grandma’s house in bewilderment. The smell of flavored pork and freshly made red sauce wafted out of the windows and rose with the sound of laughter. The family was already there: all four of my aunts elbow deep into bowls of chicken, pork, sauces; my cousins and a couple of uncles with rolled up sleeves spreading
Myself, my mother, my sister, and my Grandma all sit around the table, with cards fanned out in our hands along with an assortment of more cards strewn across the olive-green tablecloth. We hear a ding from the oven and my sister excitedly throws down her cards and runs over to the oven, flinging the door open. The smell of freshly baked cookies fills the room. My grandma gets up, who is quickly joined by my mother and I, as we take the cookies out of the oven to let them cool off. After fanning the cookies off, we all take a bite and are mesmerized by the flavor.
There are many of heroes along with role models out there for example like Batman, and all the others we sometimes wish we could be, then there are the real heroes or people who make a difference in people’s life. Like firemen, policemen, and our military who take a risk with their life every day. One of my heroes happens to be my Grandpa, He served in The Korean War, he was the first person in the family to attend a college, and he always puts his family first. He didnt argued with anyone, no matter what the situation was. The only thing that he had to do in spite of hating it was fight in the war.
They arrived at the cottage it sat on a hill in the distance the cottage was painted a radiant yellow. The grass was so rich it bounced back in place after every step they toke. Beautiful marigolds, poppies, and roses surrounded the white picket fence. Inside was the table piled high of food fit for the gods. Frosted pastries oozing with sweet-smelling filling, mouthwatering glistering chicken, and freshly plucked fruits.
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.
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.
This lady is the most wonderful person I 've ever met. She is old, affectionate, and intelligent. It took me eighteen years to realize how much this extraordinary person influenced my life. She 's the type of person who charms everyone with her stories and experiences. She always time for her family and friends. She is the kind of leader who does everything to keep her family together and in harmony. She is my grandmother.
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
As I depart from the kitchen, I walk into the living room. There is a terrifying ugly brown couch with a crocheted throw draped over it. Two more Lazy-Boy chairs sit by it. On the opposite side of the room from me is a stone fireplace with shelves built on either side of it. These shelves are filled with books on every topic one can think of. Subjects range from the Civil War to cooking and mechanics. Above the fireplace rests an old, dependable clock. As it strikes the hour with its dings and dongs, I know I am where I belong. I am home.