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

Child care quality is a well-documented predictor of children's intellectual and social development. Family childcare providers care such as Heaven’s Little Angels in Hopkinsville, KY provide care for children in the provider’s home during traditional working hour. Parents choose family childcare homes because it offers a home-like setting. Childcare homes usually have a mixed age group with a collection of infants, toddlers and preschoolers; therefore, rendering a more family oriented atmosphere opposed to a traditional classroom atmosphere.

It was 5 on a chilly October morning, the sky was still dark, and the silence was peaceful. There was a few people on the road crossing into Juarez was what took the longest. After waiting in line for what felt like an eternity I weighed my bags and passed through security, I was handed a ticket with a destination to Mexico City. After 3 hours of being on an airplane, I could see the ground, tiny streets filled with people and cars everywhere I looked, huge buildings of every color, and a golden angel that stood in the sky in the middle of the city. I had finally arrived to Mexico City, without knowing how long I would live there or if I would ever leave.

Everyone dreams about buying his or her dream house; I lost my dream house, twice. When my girlfriend Izzy and I began house searching, it was a whirlwind of excitement. This was our first hunt in the real estate market, and we were ready to close in on the perfect first house. Suddenly we were staying up into the late hours of the night, cuddled in bed, endlessly searching for houses on Zillow. Throw pillows, dishes and pictures began to jump off the shelves at us in every store we entered. We anxiously imagined every aspect of what we wanted in our house. The rush of chasing down the ideal house and making it our home was thrilling, yet short lived.

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.

Home is the warm embrace offered to me by my mother as soon as I open the door. Home is the smell of freshly cooked food, the kind you can smell before you even open the door, and when you do open the door it just wafts out at you. Home is where the dogs jump up and down at the back door and bark vigorously until you open the door and then they attack you with kisses. Home is where your family all lives within twenty minutes of each other. Home is where we are most comfortable.

We’re late. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. We live three minutes away, yet every weekend we manage to be running late for Sunday morning mass. It’s always been this way, but my family doesn’t seem to want to change that habit, even if it means that we might get stuck with the worst seats: the ones in the front row. My friends don’t spend their Sunday mornings waking up early to put on their fancy Sunday dresses, a lot of them never had to. Majority of my friends’ families spend their Sunday mornings packing coolers with ice teas and musubis for the beach, or are able to sleep in until one o’clock in the afternoon. That was never the case for me; I’ve spent all my Sundays waking up early to attend service at a place where I am able to call my other home, my church. It’s the hospitality and the community, generally, the acts of love that make me feel welcomed.

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.

The grass, still soft and bright green in the late summer, rolls with grace. Its hue compliments the blue sky perfectly. Fluffy clouds string the distant horizon like the lace on the hem of my dress as the sky fades with a single stroke of a brush to deep blue. A night blue that is so deep and never ending that the ocean itself would be jealous. A soft breeze flutters between my dark amber hair as my pale blue dress skips around my knees. Another perfect day in this perfect life. Many live a life like mine…most, in fact. No problems, no troubles. We have lived this way, well...um...forever.

Home is a place you’re always welcomed, a place where you know even when you mess up the people there still love you. Home is the place where you don’t have to wear a mask for anyone you can just be yourself always, or at least that’s what home was for me.

The first thing I noticed when looking at the house built at the end of the cul-de-sac on Calle Redonda, was it’s large stones. Ninety percent of the house was covered with them. I stood at the beginning of the driveway and  caught sight of little sprouts of weeds bursting through the cracks between each stone. The further I walked up the driveway closer to the garage, the more pink and sparkly toys I passed by. Pieces of pink chalk, size four children's fluffy shoes, sometimes even princess dresses were all left in the driveway. When I reached the garage door I noticed the weathering on the wood from the sunny days of summer. I could distinguish discoloring on the two metal handles on the sides of the garage doors.

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.

I lived in a house on Veteran’s Boulevard for the first two years of my life. It was there that I learned to walk and talk. Living in the house was entirely uneventful.