Descriptive Essay About A Loving Home

Driving to Long Prairie, on the right side of the road, up a hill with a long, paved driveway will be a house to the left. This house is two-stories with a basement. The first time I saw it, the house had a worn out, light tan vinyl siding with faded, dark red shutters from years of Minnesota weather. At the end of the driveway was a garage that resembled the houses color. To the right of the driveway was a large stone wall that was overrun with wild grape vines. In the middle of the wall was a stairway that leads to an old, rundown playhouse. Also, there was a large, gray brick shed further away. Beyond the house are the woods, littered with pine needles from the rows of trees my grandpa planted when he moved there. The whole area is surrounded by the overpowering smell of pine, and the silence the woods carries; it brings a calming, peaceful sensation to me. As the years have gone on, the house and I have aged, grown, and changed together.

Down the street and around the crescent, by the dented stop sign, the third house on the left, the one with the loose brick by the chimney. The one with the black doors and the black roof and the dark bricks and the windows with a white trim- it looks like a distorted face staring at the empty space ahead. That’s my house. The one with the misshapen, nearly dead tree, that taps and scratches at the window when the wind blows, like a spirit warning me to escape while I still can. That’s my house. The house that gives people the chills when they walk by, the one people cross the street to avoid, and the one little children run by and tell stories about. The feeling we get can only be compared to the feeling we have when we drive by a graveyard. Sadness. Eeriness. Yes, that’s my house.

I come to this place every year. The beaches of beige sand and the feeling is cold and soft underneath my feet, I instantly feel so at home. The sun is shining and the water is sparkling like glitter in the distance. I turn around to see a brown shingle house with lots of windows staring back at me. I can hear the voices of my family as they gather on the balcony overlooking the beach. There are three families, twenty people all taking a moment on the patio to relish in the fact that the week we all have waited for is here. Despite the yearlong work it takes to put together this vacation, it is a great joy when everyone is together having fun. The beach house becomes a home away from home, full of energy, good food, games, and celebration.

When I first moved in there was a small crack in my wall, it wasn't so small that it was easily ignored but it wasn't particularly large. It was supposed to be filled in once I was fully settled into my new room. It never was. Every night I would stare into that crack in the wall, sometimes only for a few hours, sometimes until I could see the rays of sunshine filtering into my room through my window. Every night as I stared into my fractured wall I felt the minor gap in my wall stare back at me as I waited for sleep to encompass me. For almost five years, that crack in my wall was there as a reminder. Reminder for what? A reminder that sometimes there's only so much stress something can take before it begins to crack.

Home is the place one spends more time in their life and share special moments with family. Where one expects to live permanently carefree and feel protected under the roof of their house. One day I want to have a home that makes me feel well and where I can be safe and happy. The purpose of this essay is to illustrate the decisions I made about designing my future dream house.

One place that I see every day but don’t put much attention to is my house. The house that I live in is near by a park and a gas station. My house is small and cozy is made of steel frames, the anterior part of the house has a beige and pink color that combine a beautiful shade. The inside of my house has many portraits of family members and drawings. I have a total of two bathrooms and four rooms a kitchen and two living rooms. We have a living room that’s used for grown-ups and the other one is used for the children. The kitchen table and chairs are made of wood, in the ceiling there is big chandelier. The walls of my house are painted in different colors that are green, beige and pink. I like that every room has its own different color, it’s not boring it brings life and shade.

As humans, we associate the word isolation with negative feelings. And being told I was moving to a foreign island across the world that I had never previously heard of had me chalking up isolation negatively as well. The island is very small and doesn’t have all the resources that can be found here in America and you have to take a plane just to get to mainland Japan. My experiences with this isolation over four years altered Okinawa into what I now consider to be my home. My home is a secluded island that shaped me as a person by providing me with the tools and distance to educate different aspects of not only my life, but others as well.

During 5th grade year of 2016, almost once every week my parents would go and look for a house. I would remind them everyday that the house we have is great and there is no need to find another. In that house I have lived there at least eight years, which is most of my life so far. Till this day it has always been my favorite house, and the perfect house. I have made so many memories there it is impossible to count. I loved it.

It was 1973. No just kidding. It is 2017 I have just moved into a new house. At my old house, there was a playground in my backyard. We made it all by ourselves, from scratch. We had to leave it at the house because of two things, the buyers wanted it and it wouldn't fit in the moving truck. Also at my old house we had 3 rooms, and my mom and dad had to sleep in the garage. The house was a simple house. It has 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen,and a garage, that doesn't open but it. Still works as a bedroom.

As I am walking home from school I take the time to look around my surroundings. Leaves a variety of reds, oranges and yellows descend from the trees and encase the ground like a blanket. The wind begins to pick up, building miniature vortexes with the leaves and dropping them off to their new locations. There is not much to Stowe, Vermont: a couple of convenience stores, a few diners scattered, parks and widely spaces houses that stretch down for a few miles. Extravagant would not be the leading word to describe this town, but I love it nonetheless.

Home means something different to every person, but we tend to spend more time there than anywhere else. Everyone’s home setting is different, but it is typically a haven to most; home is where we go after a day at work or school; it is where we are truly free to do what we want and be comfortable; home is home. Our daily lives exhibit repetitive patterns that in turn compose our routines, which occur every day and shape us into the people we are. My home life obviously has shaped me in many ways.

Home is something I didn’t even notice, or thought I’d miss, until I’d left for college. And then, I found myself longing for a home I hadn’t noticed was a home. Home feels warm, welcoming, like it should never be left. And yet, we have all left home. It used to be the middle roundtable with the four uncomfortable, a bit too large, chairs in the library. Between 11:10 and 11:40, everyday; home was lunch with my friends. Matt, on my right, and Clark on my left, scrambling to complete the homework due later that day. When I would nap, and my shoes would be stolen by Clark, only to wake up to find Matt had written quotes, not only onto the soles of them, but on my arms as well, in permanent marker. Home was the librarians fondly reprimanding Matt and me for eating in the library, yet still hating Clark for some inexplicable reason, or sneaking in without our school i.d.s, feeling so proud of ourselves when we didn’t have to sit outside. Aaron, relegated to the fourth, uneven chair, whenever he would occasionally visit, only for us to get into a long-standing argument over whether Gandalf or Dumbledore was more powerful, until Matt finally agreed with me, quoting the Silmarillion word for word. Which naturally progressed to quoting the movies at Aaron until he agreed, Clark confused and lost in the conversation. This inevitably led, to us lamenting about Clark not knowing any pop culture besides anime, then trying to boost his confidence, assuring he, out of any of us, wouldn’t

Pebbles fly as my Jeep takes a corner too fast, my body lurching to the left at the sudden force of the turn. I’m finally on Green, a quiet dirt road that stretches from Bennett Lake to Parshallville, a scenic detour I ride down that lets me clear my head. I’ve only lived in the area for two years, but those two years gave me something timeless--a home. My home isn’t some conventional house in the suburbs, although I did live in such a house, but it is the roads and the fields that webbed their way throughout and past my city, and the memories I make with others while on them. I glance at my sister Ken next to me; her right arm stretching lazily out of the window, the other scrolling the radio’s knob, attempting to find a worthy song to play. She’s only nineteen, with hair shorter and blonder than my own. Her presence soothes me, as if every pleasant memory we grew up making together was somehow brought back through each of her smiles. She is my closest friend; she not only provides the part of my home that allows me to be heard by someone who understands, but also the knowledge that we cherish the same home. I pull my attention away from her, watching the fields and houses quickly slip by. The few farmhouses we pass begin to fade until all that borders the road are giant trees, each tipping over us to create a canopy of leaves.

One hundred miles could take me a long ways from home. I could end up in the big city down south, or I could choose to head north to the heartland of Minnesota. If I go just the right direction, one hundred miles will take me right back home. How could that be? There is a small place just south of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, that I consider to be my second home. I call it Bear Camp. It consists of a very rough and bumpy driveway that leads to a small opening in the woods. There is a small fire pit in the center of the campsite that has been overflowing with ashes for years. My family and I usually go there, along with some family friends, to get away. An outsider would think that it is just an open, overgrown prairie, but when we all visit, this place becomes our home.

Now that i’m actually thinking about the entirety of my childhood, it seems kind of crazy that i’m at the point where i’m at now. I remember when I was about nine years old, I thought to myself, “It will feel like forever until I start driving.” It’s crazy to think now that I’m only less than a month away from getting my license. And it feels like only yesterday that I was nine years old. Time seems like it really does fly sometimes.