Descriptive Essay About Home

Family is defined differently for everyone. Family members can live down the street or in another country. Some people have close knit families while others do not. Similarly, home is also defined differently for everyone. Some people might believe that home is just the house they live in, and with each move comes a new home. Others, however, believe that home is where their family is. People use family as a way to define home in slightly different ways. For example, in her essay “On Going Home,” Joan Didion writes about wanting to give her daughter “home” for her birthday. Didion describes her home as being where her family is. In his essay, “Coming Home Again,” Chang-Rae Lee uses his mother as a way of defining his home. In the third

Hello everyone! Welcome to our first meeting for the production of “A Solid Home”. I am very excited about what we can create together and I want us to be able to get started right away. For this production, our guiding concept is going to be “Death can be livelier than life.”

What is home? If one looks in a dictionary the answer would come out to be, “The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” However, for anyone who has had an actual home, they would know that such a term goes much beyond its concrete description. It is an impassioned aspect filled with values and foundation of nurturing. A home is not just an abode built to live in; in fact, that is just a definition of a house. Home is a place where one not only feels comfortable, but a place they look forward to opportunely live in every day. A home is built not by bricks or wood, but with the bond of family. A home is a place that reminds a person of countless memories and values when he walks through a

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.

For the seventh year in a row, Charlie and his friends headed out into the chilly night to go trick-or-treating. Everyone on their street decked out their houses with decorations, but Charlie’s house was always by far the best. It had graves all along the front lawn with zombies popping half out as if they were coming back from the dead. The house was covered in spider webs on all sides, plus it had spiders dangling from the roof. Some of the windows were boarded up and the others had pieces of broken glass still hanging as if someone had just been thrown out of it. On top of the house, they had inflatables such as a 10-foot giant reaper, Jack Skellington sitting on a tombstone, and Frankenstein. On the front porch was a ancient wrapped mummy that frightened children as they came up to ring the doorbell because it was actually Charlie’s dad who was hiding inside. To top off the decorations, they had a green and black light type of vibe circulating the entire house to bring it all together. Charlie never liked the cemetery part of their decorations because it always scared him of zombies crawling out beneath the ground and attacking the city. He was so terrified that when he was five, he had a horrific dream right before Halloween night about zombies coming out of the local graveyard and attacking him. The rotten flesh and disgusting smell that reeked in his house made him sick. The zombies crept up the stairs and into Charlie’s bedroom where he was sleeping. The five-year-old boy was absolutely terrified, he saw the zombies come up to his bed, and Charlie screamed as loud as he could in fear and woke up as his mom aided him in comfort. That year Charlie didn’t go trick-or-treating, because he was petrified of what he had seen. Throughout the day he was having flashbacks of what he had saw during his dream. A sudden reminder that made him feel uncomfortable every year of Halloween, but he never experienced anything like that again.

It was 1973. No just kidding. It is 2017 At my old house, there was a playground in my backyard. We made it all by our selves, 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.

Living in a city can make you forget the outside world. You forget about the green grass, the trees, the chirping birds, the animals, and so many other things the world has to offer. We also forget the people who came before us, who did so much for us, who built everything we have today. We’re so busy doing stuff that is unimportant, that we forget about the stuff that is. Getting a house in Connecticut, made me realize all these things. It made me more in touch with nature and history. I got my country house about 8 years ago, and I think it changed me for the better.

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.

My eyes opened slowly and unexpectedly. I yawned and stretched my body out across my mattress, arms out reaching high above my head, getting the joints warm and flexible. I sat up on the bed and looked around the near pitch black space that was my bedroom. My eyes have yet to adjust to the darkness, but I knew where everything was, all committed to memory. My room forms the shape of an L; The door leading into my room opens up to a space five feet wide and it opens up to the rest of my room in a square shape. In the right-hand corner of the room lies my bed against the wall, jet-black sheets covering the bed that I currently sit on with matching pillowcases and a white fleece blanket that wasn’t covering me at the moment, so it was probably on the floor. Next to my bed was my desk, very large and made of redwood, with three drawers on its right side and one under where the middle of the desk was. In the corner opposite of me on the left side of my room was my bookshelf, filled to the brim with all sorts of books, each one I had a very strong fondness for, and on top of it a globe and a random mess of papers, journals and writing utensils that I use for schoolwork. Directly right to the bookshelf was the small wooden nightstand that my 22-inch flat screen TV sat atop, several of my favorite DVDs and video game cases on it as well and on the floor beneath the stand was my Playstation 4 console and my 2 controllers

My house, not my home, just my house. There is a difference, but I wonder if anyone notices other than me. A home has special touches, the cozy feelings, family, memories, and most importantly it gives you and your family something to be proud of. It is something your parents have worked hard to have, it is hopefully a place you feel safe, loved and know better than anywhere. Home isn’t really based on what it looks like, it’s a feeling, or is it a mix of both?

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.

Any person in the right mind wouldn’t like living the life that I’m living. But I guess I’m not in the right mind, considering I love my life. My mom died when I was five from cancer. I don’t remember her much, but judging from stories my dad told me, she seemed very nice. And from the pictures I’ve seen I know she was beautiful, I’m talking super model looks. She must not have been any kind of model, though or else we would have had a lot more money. In case you didn’t know, I’m Alexa (preferably Alex) and I have cancer as well. Leukemia. I can tell my dad worries about me. If I died he’d be all alone, but I don’t plan on doing that anytime soon. Speaking of,

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.

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 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.

Where was home? I could never find it. Not in the old apartment I used to live in, not in the house I lived in now. The closest I remembered ever getting to the feeling of home was in my room, but it still didn 't feel right. It hid from me. It taunted me. I could never catch it. Then we went to visit a country, my home country. România. We landed in the main city, Bucharest. However, as the landscape settled, creating a picture holding familiarity, it stirred no sense of nostalgia. Nonetheless, it was still a sight to see, holding the wealthy, holding the beggarly, and the city dawning with art and vulgarity. The aforementioned was a horrid beauty, the Hunchback of Notre Dame in a beautiful Europe. But among all the grime, the city seemed