Descriptive Essay About My Grandmother's House

It was an unusual quiet evening at my favorite diner. I always loved meeting my beautiful wife here after a long day of work to get some of Chicago’s best coffee. Upon opening the front door, the welcoming smell of freshly ground coffee fills my nostrils as I take a deep breath, but at the same time, I lose my breath as I spot my stunning wife waiting for me. She was wearing a vibrant red dress, as she knows that it’s my favorite, while her hair shimmered in the light.

This was the exact place where my mother grew into a women. I’m chomping on my food as we coast farther into the neighborhood. When I glance at my surroundings, my eyes turn into wide saucers. I was captivated by what had managed to happen over the years. It was as if a spirit has blew on the neighborhood and knocked everything down. You would think a storm caused this disarray, but this is what crime and corruption does communities. The food weighed in my hand, for I was no longer hungry, just in complete shock. The air was eerie and uncomfortably silent as we turned the corner. My mother’s gasp breaks the silence and I snap my head in her direction. “This was my friend’s house! I would come over to watch movies and eat popcorn in her basement,” my mom moans, getting emotional. This house was charred, allowing red bricks, scorched wood, and glass to collect in a heaping pile, leaving only the chimney standing. The more we drove around this neighborhood, the more it looked like an abandoned warzone then a tight-knit community that once caused my mother so much

Growing-up I always had a lot of family that was very supportive in my life. They believed in me even when I didn 't believe in myself. However, one person that I loved so much was my great grandmother, Bobbie Alger. She married Robert Alger (a military man) at a very young age and they were happily married until he died before I was born. My parents loved Robert and decided to name me after him. So, they named me Kyle Robert Phillippi. This has always meant so much to me. My great grandma is now 92 years old and is my biggest role model. Bobbie and I have a unusual relationship. A type where people think we are disrespectful to each other. But I can reassure you that we love each other so much.

Last night my grandmother, Kasper, or Kas for short, passed away. She was 79 years old. Which I guess is a pretty long time so I guess I can’t complain. But, It still sucks.

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We fought like siblings, my mother said. We fought like sissies, my uncle said. We fought like the goddamn Irish, my papa yelled. And we did, my cousins and I fought enough to have scrambled eggs for brains. But we always stopped when the loser started to bleed.

There she is. Commanding the attention of all eyes as they enter the room. She is sturdy and she is practical. She is there for a purpose and does her job. She works the night shift and occasional days. She comforts the sick and tiered. She is full of admirable qualities. She possess the curves any woman would envy. She is a mixture of light and dark coloring. She is an antique. She is as sturdy and weathered as an old oak tree in the forest. She is polished but does not shine, and is scarred with the use of years. She has been with my great-grandmother for years. I am not sure when she first arrived because she has been with great-grandma my entire life. According to my Uncle she has been there for more than fifty years. She has remained steadfast through the years and different relationships have come and gone. She remains a family heirloom. She remains family.

We arrived at grandma’s place to clear out her home. As I stepped in, warm morning light caressed my face and was infused with a golden orange glow. I clutched a photograph of my grandmother, now worn and tearing. I still couldn’t believe that she was gone. I still remembered when I first heard about this, sorrow twisted tightly into me and a rush of tears flowed from my eyes. That day, was the mournful days of my life.

It was a warm summer day in Florida. I wake up and crawl out of my bed. My feet are chilled by the cool, slick texture of the hardwood floor. My mom is calling me to come eat breakfast with the rest of the family. We were at our family beach house on vacation (a family ritual that we have been doing for the past five years). I greet everyone at the breakfast table as the aroma coming from the food draws me in. I sit down. On my plate sat three freshly baked pancakes, two crispy strips of bacon, and a large spoonful if scrambled eggs. While at the dinner table, we discussed activities to do for the rest of the day. It was decided that we would have the most fun if we went to the local beach so that way the we can choose to swim, go fishing, or go jet skiing.

My eyes wandered around the room that my grandmother now resided in, drinking up every detail and at the same time, cautiously avoiding the bed that was in the center of the room. I couldn't bear to look at my once lively and animated grandma now laying there looking lethargic. No would even believe me if I described how my she used to look; her expressive eyes were full of knowledge and secrets that only she knew, her surprisingly thick hair that was red from the henna she puts on every other saturday, and a warm smile that made anyone feel special if it was directed at them, I want to remember her as my grandma who used make an extra cake when we baked together because she knew that I wouldn't like the one I made, not as my grandma who is on a bed that may as well be her death bed. Her loud laughter used to echo through her small and cozy house that I used to spend all my summers in. Now you'd have to listen closely to be able to hear her, her vocals not being able to produce a sound louder than a whisper.

The skill I am teaching my grandma is how to use her new tablet and successfully make a Facebook account for herself and use it.

I turned around, looking back at my old room. The paint on the wall is peeling off, the ceiling was falling apart, and the floor was cracking open. This was the house I have been living for thirteen years, and now I need to leave. Mom and dad bought this house from an old man, then thirteen years past, this is 2004. yes, it is already 2004, how fast is it! I stood there, staring at the empty room with only a little furniture. I can’t feel home, where is my home? I don’t know this weird feeling. Happy and sad at the same time. However, if I left, is it going to be an enjoyable life, or it is going to be another way that leads me to my doom? I kept repeating in my mind.

My Grandmother’s house will always have a special place in my heart. I love it so much because it’s her only house in Florida. She was raised up in the Cayman Islands, where she spent most of her life until she moved down to Florida. When she came to move in, I was about 10 and was overly excited to help her move in. Driving into the neighborhood, the first thing I noticed was that all the houses looked very similar, a dark brown roof with white walls and some stairs leading to the front door, which always seemed to creep me out. When I got to my Grandmother’s house, it was in the corner of a cul de sac. In the middle of the cul de sac, was a very large oak tree surrounded by dark green bushes with different colored plants and surrounding it was a cement curb. The tree stood about 50 feet tall and the bushes were bright green with red leaves on them and changed colors during the fall. In front of the house to the left was a patch of grass for a garden and to the right was a sidewalk that would lead to the backyard. When I walked in, the first thing to grab my eye was this giant mirror she had in the living room. It’s one of the biggest mirrors i’ve seen. It stood maybe about 50 feet tall and covers the whole back wall of her living room. Upstairs, she has two guest bedrooms along with her own master bedroom. Downstairs was the kitchen and dining room and in the kitchen she had an enclosed patio as well as one next to the living room. Both patios lead to the backyard where

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.

My grandmother’s home and family life is one that she is very proud of as she was raised in a loving home and continued that nurturing motherhood role as she had a family of her own. Violet met her husband Harold through friends in their surrounding area, and dated only him until the time they got married. Without social media and the easy access to vehicles and transportation, majority of the people who married in her generation already met their spouses at a young age due to proximity and school grades sharing the same classroom. She married Harold Mann at the age of sixteen in the town Cana and together they began their life together. They had six children, three boys and three girls all of whom worked on the family farm and helped doing the household chores. The job tasks in my grandmother’s home were very similar to the one’s she experienced growing up as a child; the girls did the inside chores with my grandmother while the boys helped out with the farming and machining responsibilities with my grandfather. Although the work tasks were different for the boys and girls, the expectations remained the same for all; they were to complete their chores with no complaining and appreciate everything their parents provided for them. All of her children attended elementary and high school, with two of her six children accomplishing graduation. The rest of her children attended to the needs of the farm and carried out those responsibilities as opposed to finishing school.