Descriptive Essay About A New Home

The street I live on has a lot of houses on it, and mine just happens to be one of them. Each house has its own driveway each one unique in its own way. Most of them are paved driveways, but mine happens to be made from hard pack. I can picture the driveway when it was built, still in the same place and still being made of rocks.

In my lifetime, I have lived in 4 different homes. None of them can even compare to the very first home I lived in, in my hometown of Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was a quaint duplex home that was on a tranquil street underneath a towering maple tree. Nothing will ever be able to replace its permanent spot in my heart.

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.

I live in the “middle of nowhere.” The neighbor-less neighborhood is where home is for half of the time as the other half I live in an ever-growing college city, Columbia. I have cultivated a special appreciation for each journey home through the winding Missouri back roads that bring me to the place where my soul rests, so matter how many times I make the drive. The roads may take me to my house, but my home exists far beyond its walls.

Ordinarily, traveling to the “middle of nowhere” is just that—going nowhere. However, to me it means the neighbor-less neighborhood, called backcountry. I live in the “middle of nowhere” for half of the time; the other half I live in an ever-growing college city, Columbia. I have cultivated a special appreciation for each journey home through the winding Missouri back roads that bring me to the place where my soul rests. Though the roads may take me to one of my houses, my home exists far beyond its walls.

In a small town called Whigham located in the southwest part of Georgia is a home numbered 201 in the middle of Harrell Avenue Northwest. The home is shaded by a mighty oak tree, its exterior is white in color with a forest green metal door and window trim painted forest green to match the door. On the outside this house is full of plant life, two domestic dogs that guard the home from morning to night, and wild animals living off the provisions of the land. The inside of the house is full of geckos, family, and love. This is the house I was raised in since my mother and father brought me home from Grady General Hospital in the month of January in 1991. This home will forever be my safety and my delight.

Whenever I hear the word home, I immediately think about a small town about an hour northeast of Madison. I was born and raised in this small town and hope to return to or near it after college. Even though I live in Madison now, home to me is Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. My idea about what home is has changed over time due to different life events, such as hard times and going to college to continue my education. The one thing that hasn’t changed though is the place that I consider my home.

As I walk through the door, two tiny humans greet me shouting, “Aunt Lee Lee! Aunt Lee Lee!” A wave of relaxation and love over flows me from head to toe. The smell of pumpkin fills the autumn air. My sister comes waddling around the corner with a big belly carrying my third blessing, ah, I’m home.

As I opened the way to the dreadful old frequented house on my road, I began to surmise that perhaps this wasn't such a smart thought. I admonished myself for needing to turn back, and reluctantly ventured inside to investigate. My darker hair and dim dark colored eyes made me for all intents and purposes cover in the wood-framed anteroom, aside from my old dim hooded sweatshirt and agreeable red sweat pants. I was normal tallness for eleven, however I was all the while must admire check for spider webs. I needed to clean my glasses since so much tidy had gathered on them. My hair required washed as of now since so much tidy has gathered on it. As I strolled through the entryway on my right side, I understood this must be the formal fining room. An old, Victorian style table with eight rich seats was clearly the point of convergence of the room, laying on an excellent green, gold, and red conditioned cover. The hardwood flooring around it composed immaculately with the covering, which came roughly 33% of the path up the exquisite gold-painted divider. The tremendous picture window was confined by a custom bureau with a smorgasbord coming to simply beneath the windowsill. My heart was beating, and the room noticed dusty, smelly, and faintly of roses. On the table there was a substantial bunch of red roses, and eight green, red, and gold place mats. Another red rose, each in a thin vase, sat at each place. I chose to look through the bureau by the window to check whether

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.

A bang on my door interrupts my quiet slumber and jolts my body into a sitting position. I rub my blurry eyes and swing my legs over the side of my bed, trying to move forwards. My foot gets caught in the fluffy blanket and I tumble to the ground. “Gahh!” My head hits my side table when I bolt into a sitting position. My hand reaches up and rubs my head whilst my other hand balances my glasses on the bridge of my nose.

Arkansas, Only about a hour, maybe two hours long drive away from home. Over the course of the day we meet new and different people, eat good food, and give gifts. Everyone is overly affectionate and helps out in the kitchen. Squeezing around twenty people in the tiny house is a tight smoosh, even if our family is almost half of that group. The house itself may not be that tiny but we’re all gathered in just the kitchen and living room, making it seem like a smaller space. At times, a few people stroll out the glass door, onto the patio and into the back yard, yet even then it feels just a tad crowded, especially since we were around people we’d never met. From long road trips to the ice cream punch to eating way too many rice krispie treats in one sitting, every part of that day went smoothly, giving off a joyful, pleasant vibe. Joyful is a great feeling to have around Christmas time. The best part? It was all captured in one sweet picture.

Up to this point in my life, I have lived in two homes, though the one I live in now is where I have primarily lived. I have so many vivid memories from these two places that I am constantly looking around remembering all of the good times I had. Moving into my current home was not only a decision to expand on our living space, but give both me and my sister a good place to live. Between the less than desirable neighbors and the small cramped environment, it was a necessary choice to move an I couldn’t be any happier for it.

In a small town called Whigham located in the southwest part of Georgia is a home numbered 201 in the middle of Harrell Avenue Northwest. The home is shaded by a mighty oak tree, its exterior is white in color with a forest green metal door and window trim painted forest green to match the door. On the outside this house is full of plant life, two domestic dogs that guard the home from morning to night, and wild animals living off the provisions of the land. The inside of the house is full of geckos, family, and love. This is the house I was raised in since my mother and father brought me home from Grady General Hospital in January 1991. This home will forever be my safety and my coziness.

It was a dark brown house with red shutters. It was placed up on a hill so in the winter it was so difficult to pull the car in the garage. Inside, the walls were tan and mustard yellow. It was plain in the house but I didn’t expect much. It smelt like the over-done scentsy that I put in. It was called apple-butter and that’s exactly what the house smelt of. It was three stories and the basement was half finished. I painted the door a dark red and it made the whole house stick out. I remember it being so welcoming and now when I think about it, I get a cold shiver down my spine. There were holes in some of the walls from things being thrown. The front doors lock was splitting apart, the trim on the sides on the door was broken off. If those walls could talk I would go back in there for a day just to listen.