Descriptive Essay About My Home

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.

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.

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,

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?

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

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

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.

When I was young, I would often dream of becoming a crewmate on a seaworthy vessel, battling high, intimidating and ferocious tides. Apart with having the maneuvering ability to go through tight nooks and crannies to explore uncharted waters. Part of this was due to my imagination, but a large influence was given by my house, which seemed like a fine boat itself. Surrounded by unconstructed houses which seemed like unmapped area, and numerous resemblances to pirate ships such as a flag flying off the balcony, my childhood home was the perfect place for a blooming imagination to run wild.

As my feet lightly tapped and echoed against the hard, concrete floor, a foreign feeling filled every inch of my body. The wintery air felt cold, lifeless, and in all senses dead, and the high chirp of the birds above was strangely absent. And as I approached the door to my own house, I began to hesitate. Somehow, somewhere, deep within me, was a small sense of dread. Regardless of all telling me to do otherwise, I twisted the door’s knob, and swung it open with all the usual enthusiasm. I dashed forward, through into the living room’s comfort, until I saw my parents, sitting there, dull faced as I told them about my day. Something was wrong, and it was something awful.

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.

I have lived in the same small house on Honey Creek road my entire life.The front yard is full of bright green grass, that stands just a little too tall. One ditch is on each side of the long black cement driveway. At the beginning of the driveway are two large, solid boulders. My front yard is large compared to the neighboring yards. It is where my siblings and I would play tag and other games during late summer nights and would build snowmen on cold winter evenings. The same yard that my brother has spent countless hours push mowing the too tall, bright green grass. Looking at the front view of my house, the siding is a light gray and covers the entirety of the one story house. There is a tall red brick chimney off to the right but is hardly ever caught breathing smoke. The roofing is a dark blue with black speckles and the front door is a matching blue painted on very thick. On the front door is a brown wreath hung by a burlap bow. The word family, in a bubbly font, is neatly centered in the middle of the wreath.

Many newlyweds usually buy a house or pay to have one built so they can start having children immediately. These houses often contain multiple floors that often contain a final floor called a basement. The many uses of a basement include a bedroom for members of the family, an area to have family time, or a man cave. The Meyer family built a house before the turn of the century a couple minutes away from Main Street St. Charles. The house contained a lower level basement that has proven extremely useful and important to me during my lifetime. From times doing homework to the meals I took down there to consume, the Meyer basement has been a focal point in my life. The five senses are vital to help describe my basement as can be seen by the setup of the few pieces of furniture, the taste of the numerous meals I have delighted myself with, in addition to the many sounds protruding from multiple devices.

My hometown. A small, southern speck on a map with population: not enough. If you came to my hometown you may say: You people sound different, I'm just not use to the way you speak. Yet, if I came to your hometown I may say: Y'all sound funny, I ain't use to all this. Yes, I grew up talking a little bit, or should I say tad bit different than most but hey, I am the one giving the speech here. So, you are going to have to listen to my country accent talk for a while. Even though, I do not feel less educated in any way. So my small town in Alabama is just any small town. There is not much to it really, not enough to talk about for a good 10 minutes but if I don't talk about it for 10 minutes I don't pass my class so, who is ready to hear me ramble for a while? I know I am. In my small town the most classiest restaurant is a McDonald's and the store that keeps up with the latest fashion is Walmart. Now you may have an idea of what kind of environment I grew up in. To be honest, my hometown has only a few stoplights, we have a lot of dirt roads, and a lot of wildlife. You can't go anywhere without seeing a tree. Just to let you have a mindset of what the town I grew up in is like, I have a little story to tell you.

My hometown is known for being an old classic German immigrant community. The towns name is Columbia, Illinois which is located about 10 miles south of Saint Louis in the southwest region of Illinois. All my life I have lived in Columbia attending school there and always going to town events. Although Columbia isn’t filled with many national historical events or structures, it has a rich local history and important local historical sites. As a kid I visited many of these locations on school field trips. I love my hometown due to its small size that offers a sense of community and togetherness.

I always knew as a little girl that there was something different about me. The way I acted, how I dressed, the thoughts that crossed my mind, of course, the area I lived in didn’t help much to encourage who I was. My hometown could be described as a small, mostly traditional, Catholic area located at the very bottom tip of Texas, a.k.a the valley.