Childhood Memories of Grandma's House Essay

Today, fifty-odd years later, I sit on my porch alone, swinging gently in the morning. I can look out over the yard. It looks just the same as the place were my most important moment of my life happened. I’ve kept it like that, so I never forgot. It's a large yard, that looks like a tiny meadow in a forest. It’s the height of summer right now, so all the trees are full and green. Just like it was then.

Heavenly smells in the air, footballs on T.V, family is gathered around, and a comfortable homey feel of my grandmother’s house makes Thanksgiving one of my favorite meals of the year. I will always have memories of thanksgiving at my grandmothers. The smell that rushes your nose as you walk in to the house. So many mouthwatering smells go through the air at my grandmother’s thanksgiving. Her Thanksgiving dinner never fails to fulfill my expectations. With the whole family gathered and the dinner table full of delicious food, I can’t help but feel content.

Next, “Behind the Grandma’s House”, is the poem written in 1985 by Gary Soto. Gary Soto was born in Fresno California; he gives voice to San Joaquin Valley agriculture workers whose deprivations have been part of his experience and social awareness from early age” (291). Gary Soto graduated with honors from California State University in 1974. Also, he has received numerous writing awards, including the distinction of being the first writer identifying himself as a Chicago to be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Commutatively, because of the Soto grew up in, he occasionally writes about the life on the streets.

Every kid growing up has a role model, mine happening to be Michael Jordan. In “Behind Grandma’s House” Gary Soto informs us about an event of a 10-year-old kid who wants two things, to be famous, and to be tough. These two characteristic probably come from something that the kid saw on television or on movies and now wants to go out and mimic the people in the movies. Soto’s use of imagery and descriptions in “Behind Grandma’s House” paints me a perfect picture of how the narrator attempts to portray a famous tough guy.

In the poem “Behind Grandma’s House,” written by Gary Soto, a young boy struggles to behave and suppress outbursts of bad behavior. “In the alley, kicking over trash cans,” (li. 6). The boy practically terrorizes the rest of his neighborhood. “And wanted to prove I was tough” (li. 5). The boy wants to prove he is tough to compensate for something he is lacking on the inside. Emotionally the boy lacks something, he tries to make up for this by creating an outward appearance of roughness. Terrorizing his neighborhood is public confirmation of his rough and tough act. The boy’s grandma has a solution to his bad behavior. “Her hair mussed, and said, ‘Let me help you,’/And punched me between the eyes” (li. 20-21). The boy’s grandma turns to hard

The subject originally resided in Martinez, California. The place of residence being a large Victorian house. This house was built by the subject’s mother. Built on top of a hill, the house offered a vista of the rest of the suburbs of Martinez. The subject has shown particular liking to the memories of the willow tree in the backyard.

When I look at this picture, it remindes me of when i went hicking in the woods this weekend. I was out camping with boy scouts at a 1800 aker ranch that had a lake, longhorns, gunrange and lots of trails. As a group, we decided to chouse one trail in particular, the trai to the ranch house.

The simple bowl is deep cherry wood with a silver rimmed bottom that reflects my face upside down as a result of the polishing it has received over the years. The grain is worn, but still radiates the strength of the tree that it came from. As I run my finger over the inside of the cavernous salad bowl, it picks up some of the olive oil residue from the homemade Italian dressing that has seeped into every little grain of the bowl over years of use. Never subject to washings; we only wiped it out with a paper towel, to better flavor the crisp Boston bibb lettuce salads that it delivered at every family dinner. Just as the wood bowl, my grandmother was weathered and cracked by the trials of life. I could not be around her without leaving

Every thanksgiving I would go to my granny house house on my daddy side to eat, chill, and joan with that side of the family. Then a couple hours later when everybody's starting to leave I go to my other granny house. Since she and my grandpa has passed it doesn't seem like thanksgiving without them being here.I loved going to see them and the other side of the family that I haven't seen in awhile. There was always a holiday party she threw every year. Every year my granny knew I loved her cheesecake so she would put up a whole one for

Ever since I was born, I always lived on Chapell Hill Road. I lived on a quiet road, embraced by trees. My house sat on a large property. In the front, there was wide open space to play. However, woods consumed the backyard. I shared a room with my twin brother, Dominick. My brother Anthony had his own room to himself.

Some of my favorite precious moments happened in grandmas kitchen each and every time we visit. Whether it was just eating some of her delicious cookies or dancing, talking, or watching the windows. The atmosphere all around grandmas house was filled with lots of sweetness joy and peace inside and out. The smell of sweet cookies over home cooked meals covering flung over the table. Fresh cold drinks like grandma got it straight from the sky. There was lemonade, milk, and coffee smelling like she hand made them with the ripest lemons, milk straight from the cow and coffee fresh from the beans. Only grandma could make it smell like that.

I remembered we would play games at that tree. The tree was very dead, so dead not even Freddy Krueger could haunt it. but we would give it life, we were the care givers. That never happened... I remember when we would decorate it with crafts we made, she would buy crayons from the dollar store, we would then bring paper to draw on, awe would then carry our supplies in a satchel that she gave to me, and we would walk to our tree, then we would sit down take out our crayons and color. After her death, I stopped going to that tree, for one reason I felt so lonely, another reason was that I kinda thought many people would probably be judging me say, "Hey, look at that crazy kid sitting under that tree!" Also because my mom said that

I know to take one last breath of fresh, clean air before I open the front screen door and then the faded, chipped white wood door. I walk in, and the blend of the aroma of apples and old people suffocates me. As I walk in, the same two-year old cat food is right where it has been for the last six months: in front of the front door on the cold faded tile floor. The cat disappeared four months ago, but I guess there is still hope that he will come back one day. I approach the sliding wooden door to enter the front living room and see some bird feed on the floor that must have been spilled the previous week along with a stack of news papers.

At just over five feet tall, she was the kind of woman that you saw on the street and knew to move out of her way. Her demeanor was strict, her hands tied with thick blue veins, criss­crossing over her thin, frail fingers.

My grandmother’s house has a very special place in my heart. As the family has gotten older and we have all had our own children we do not visit as we should. I visited with my grandmother many times when I was little. Her house always seemed to have something about it that set it apart from all the rest. As you walk into the back door of her house you would notice a long, narrow kitchen that led into the main living and dining room of her house. The smell of food home cooked food was quite evident. Grandmother cooked every day and always cooked big meals on holidays for the family.