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 family and I live about four hours away from Price, but that still doesn't stop us from going to visit as often as possible. The drive there is rather boring, but it's worth being able to see the familiar landscape of my past. After driving through a small town known as Wellington, I know that I am within minutes of being able to glance at my second home. I wait with anxiety as the car makes its way ever closer to the bridge that crosses the river, which runs right by the property of my Grandpa. Ahead I can see the old house and all the rickety, old buildings and corrals surrounding it. The excitement mounts inside as I let myself out of the car and make my way up toward the front porch. As I gently touch the cold, handmade iron railings that line the wooden steps, I know I've reached my destination.
As I stand in front of the dark brown, wooden door with its small, yet beautiful etched glass window, I remember all of the times that I have passed through this portal and entered the warm, comforting rooms inside. Before entering, I take a step back to admire this old, stubborn house. It's a two-story, white house with a three-car garage attached to it. My grandpa built the entire house from the foundation up and a lot of the items in it. After observing this scene for a few minutes, I continue to enter the house. I slowly turn the brass knob of the door and anticipate the feeling of acceptance inside. As I open the door, a flood of warmth passes over and through...
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...e property. There are corrals and sheds, which are beginning to show the effects of deterioration. Several fruit trees stand in a small orchard, which is next to a garden plot. My Grandpa's shop can also be seen from the window. This is where my Grandpa likes to spend most of his time creating new inventions or fixing old items.
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.
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