Its 7:15 a.m. and the first alarm goes on, like usual I go back to sleep in my soft silky cream sheets, covered with another layer of blankets that I got a great deal in Macy’s. As I am reaching a deep sleep, my last alarm goes on, this one makes me get up from bed. I then have to get out my bed and slowly without trying to make a noise. Onto, my fluffy white 8 X 11 rug that unlike like him I love waking up to. As I am making my way through the two matching oaked furniture, the wide five dresser with a long mirror a jewelry stack on top of the dresser, a red Yankee cinnamon scent candle and in the middle of the wide dresser there’s baby Jesus in his handmade bed my grandmother passed on to me. Across the cold, dark chocolate wooden floor is the other oaked furniture unlike mine; this dresser has three tanks of beta fish, a navy blue Yankee hat collection, and a Calvin Klein black leather crammed freshly brand-new wallet. I stop and stare at myself in the gigantic two closet mirrors facing the bed, then open the sliding door and grab a victoria secret black sweater. Once I am getting...
As I exited my house the bright sun shot rays of sunshine into my eyes making me squint and admire the view. After a hard day of work in the heat I see a old lady sitting in a horse carriage waiting, as I approach my home she says “Hi there, I’ve just had my home built recently and was wondering if you could help me move somethings into my house?”. Sure I replied, the lady showed me where her belongings were stored and one by one I carried in her light furniture and containers.
Write what you know. These are words that Willa Cather lived by. In the novel, The Professor’s House, Cather’s life is directly parallel to the life of the main character, Professor Godfrey St. Peter. Through St. Peter, the reader is able to observe the struggles as well as triumphs that occurred at that point in Willa Cather’s life. Her struggle with materialism versus idealism, discovery of religion, and her own mid-life crisis are all shown through the character of Godfrey St. Peter.
In The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, there is an emphasizes on how rough it is to be part of the low economic class . Through her words you can create an image about the way poverty affects children. She goes through the book making great remarks on the topic. The different experiences that Esperanza goes through have a lot to connect with her family's financial status. She specifically describes her feelings about the poverty they live in through three of her short stories. The three short stories in which poverty seems to be an obstacle are The House on Mango Street, Our Good Day, and Chanclas. When the book begins the downgrading of Esperanza's esteem begins with it.
She woke up at 6:00 am one morning to the sounds of loud banging on the door, but she was used to it as that was just her morning alarm. She got out of bed and changed into her baggy, worn-out red dress that didn’t fit her right anymore. She then made her bed, making sure to keep the crisp white sheets straight
The small legs that whisked back and forth in the open space of the vehicle were full of energy. The young girl spent the day with the two people she admired the most. A bigger version of herself sat in the passenger seat with her husband driving next to her. They laughed over conversation. Every so often, the girl would stick thin fingers against her mother’s shoulder to receive her attention. She would say something trivial and obvious, but her mother would still entertain her. She absorbed every phrase her daughter said as if each filled her with a tremendous joy and was the greatest thing ever spoken. Her mother had selected a black dress for her today with a large white ribbon tied around her midsection. Her hair had been combed back in two braids so that the tips were touching her shoulder blades. They were coming home late from a Christmas party at church.
Gently swaying back and forth in an old wooden rocker, I take a break from my journaling. While listening to the creaky hum of the tired oak thumping out a blue song, I think about the art of writing, painting with my words, and wonder what hampers my creative practice. A foreboding sense of unworthiness floats into my consciousness and I ask myself why do I feel this way. Rifling through my thoughts a fog wraps around me like a blanket not for comfort but instead to shield the feelings of inadequacy. I take a deep breath and inhale the reassuring sage scent of our family room. I press on in this process of self-discovery; an old black and white photo sitting on a shelf captures my eye. I see an image of myself as a smiling, confident child, which stirs uneasiness within. Following the muddled whisperings in my mind, I return to the day in the snapshot and consider what comes to pass.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
I saw her walk over to the dressing table. I watched her appear in the circular glass of the mirror looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched her keep on looking at me with her great hot-coal eyes: looking at me while she opened the little box covered with pink mother of pearl. I saw her powder her nose. When she finished, she closed the box, stood up again, and walked over to the lamp once more, saying: "I'm afraid that someone is dreaming about this room and revealing my secrets." And over the flame she held the same long and tremulous hand that she had been warming before sitting down at the mirror. And she said: "You don't feel the cold." And I said to her: "Sometimes." And she said to me: "You must feel it now." And then I understood why I couldn't have been alone in the seat. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude. "Now I feel it," I said. "And it's strange because the night is quiet. Maybe the sheet fell off." She didn't answer. Again she began to move toward the mirror and I turned again in the chair, keeping my back to her.
January 2003: I lie contentedly in my bed, covers pulled up to my nose. I glance down to see the faded, but still brilliant quilt stretched across my bed. Used. Used many times. My Grandma has been gone for three years now but I still carry her with me. I remember the time she told me to never take one single breath for granted and realized that more times than not, I don’t, which is a step in the right direction. I vow that I will live by the guidelines of my Gram and breath in and out everyday, with purpose. The quilt has served its purpose. It has protected me at night and decorated any room that it was in. The quilt may not cover me now looking brand new, but it covers me with a story of its own. I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep, quilted by Gram.
"Time to get up, time to get up, let’s go let’s go,” yelled my nine-year-old cousin Kevin as he pulls off my warm blanket. The harsh cold of the Wisconsin Cabin wakes my 10 year old body up instantly. On any other day I would unleashed a fury of strikes to his chest that would leave him gasping for air, but on this occasion I gave him a pass. I leapt off of the top bunk bed with a grace and agility that is second only to members of the cat family. The cabin’s filled with radiant hues of red and orange from the dawning sun. The savory smell of honey glazed ham filled my lungs and my mouth began to water. Food is the last thing on my mind. My job was to assist my cousins with the daunting task of waking every single person in our 9 room cabin rental. It’s Christmas, but it won’t officially begin until EVERYONE’S present.
At last I arrived, unmolested except for the rain, at the hefty decaying doors of the church. I pushed the door and it obediently opened, then I slid inside closing it surreptitiously behind me. No point in alerting others to my presence. As I turned my shoulder, my gaze was held by the magnificence of the architecture. It never fails to move me. My eyes begin by looking at the ceiling, and then they roam from side to side and finally along the walls drinking in the beauty of the stained glass windows which glowed in the candle light, finally coming to rest on the altar. I slipped into the nearest pew with the intention of saying a few prayers when I noticed him. His eyes were fixated upon me. I stared at the floor, but it was too late, because I was already aware that he wasn’t one of the priests, his clothes were all wrong and his face! It seemed lifeless. I felt so heavy. My eyes didn’t want to obey me. Neither did my legs. Too late I realised the danger! Mesmerised, I fell asleep.
I am jarred out of a relaxing sleep by a voice yelling my name in a loud whisper, and a light burning through my eyelids. Groggily, I open my eyes to see my father standing in the doorway to my messy room. He tells me that I need to get going, that it is 3:00 a.m., and I'm burning daylight. I find my clothes and get dressed. The whole time I wonder why I get up this early to visit the rugged outdoors. I want to go back to bed, but I know my dad will be back in to make sure I am getting ready, in a little bit. Instead, I put my boots and my wide-brimmed, black cowboy hat on, and walked out to catch the horses. The horses are all excited because it is dark and they are not that cooperative. My dad and I get them saddled and in the trailer, and go back into the house to get our lunch, water, and a cup of coffee. Now, we can head for the high country.
Do you ever wonder why certain places mean so much to certain people? When I think of my bedroom, I realize why some people are touchy about who goes in their room or who has been touching things in their home, it is because those things are important to them and may have some meaning. Places like my bedroom are places where we can relax and be comfortable and I think that is why it is important to people, because we can be ourselves and feel comfortable, we can also just sit down and rest our bones and relax. Another important reason is we can go there when we want privacy, we can just shut our door, maybe even lock it, and tell everyone in our household not to bother us. Also our rooms hold most of our personal belongings and those things are important to us and we do not want anyone else to touch them or in some cases go near them.
As I walk in through the door, I begin to sense the feeling of warmth come over me. This is the feeling I get every time I arrive at my Grandpa's house in Price, Utah. It's where I spent the first five years of my life. This is my second home.
My house is quite large. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, two living rooms, a dining room, a special games room and a big front and back garden.