Descriptive Essay About My House

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.

Everyone has a “dream house”, they just rely on your opinions and beliefs. You can have a modern dream house, or maybe a vintage dream house. You can also either live in the woods, in the city, or even right by the beach! You can be by yourself, or you can have lots and lots of roommates. You can have lots of neighbors, or maybe even none at all! You could live off of a mountain, or maybe on a paved street.

My definition for home is indescribable by word or by a simple thought, but home is rather of a feeling. Home is the calmness and serenity that settles over me like a blanket on a cold,snowy night, just a silent assurance telling me I belong there. It took me quite a bit of time to understand where exactly that place is, and I didn’t know that the answer was always right in front of me. This feeling would come and go, and I would never recognize it because I knew that only the house I lived in was my home. Home is in fact more than what the words in the dictionary say.

When you step into my room, the first thing you will notice is the golden afternoon sunlight fluttering in and dancing around because of the large sycamore trees outside my window. The window is fairly large, as my house is a Cape Cod style home. The reason for the window being so large is that it is one of the primary dormer windows on the second floor that front the street. The window is also set in alcove that is approximately two feet deep, and is framed with white wooden shutters on both sides. I have always been a very optimistic and happy person, and this large window letting in the golden light of nature is a fantastic representation of my personality.

On a dry hot day in the middle of August, I was awaken to mother’s happy voice saying, “We ‘re here guys!” My excited family and I had just arrived at our two-story brick house at a beautiful resort called “Ding Ding Castle” in Orlando, Florida. My mom, Aunt Wanda, Uncle TJ, cousin Cameron, friend Ronald, Grandmother Doris, Granddad Carlton, sister Kenzie, cousin Kaylan, and I were all planning on staying one long week together. When I got out of the car, I immediately smelled the fresh air and smoke from someone having a barbeque nearby and could taste the fresh grass that had just been finely cut. The bright yellow sun was beaming down on us, making me sweat instantly. I looked around and saw the rows of houses next to each other and noticed that each one had its own personal swimming pool in the back. There were tall palm trees in each yard and every house had new and shiny cars in the driveway. Our house was two stories high and was made of bright red bricks that made it stand out from all of the other houses. The house was surrounded with light green grass and had a porch with dark blue chairs sitting in a row. It was definitely one of the biggest and prettiest houses I had ever seen

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.

It’s a beautiful day in the shelter of New York and there were a lot of people, I said to myself. I was hoping that someone soon will adopt me, then a girl came near me looked at me I wanted to get her attention, so I danced she laughed. She walked away and came back with a big man, who got me out me of the cage put me in a big box I got worried because I couldn’t see anything everything was pitch black.

Beep beep beep. My eyes fluttered open as I reached to turn off my alarm. The clock read 5:30 AM. Slowly I made my way to the bathroom to get ready. The floor felt cold under my feet as I tried to miss the certain spots I knew would wake up the household. As I stood in front of the mirror, my eyes still crusted with sleep, I told myself to be strong. Cold water dripped down my neck and shirt as I massaged the lather into my skin. I noticed the droplets that had formed at the ends of my eyelashes, trying with all their might to hold onto the slick strands. Waltzing to my closet I tried to push aside my swaying thoughts. I slid on my favorite skirt and twirled in front of the mirror. I loved how it flew, the way it moved up and down like a carousel ride. I admired the fabric with its tangle of flowers interweaving through the vines. The flowers seemed a little droopy today. I brushed my hair until it was as soft as a kitten’s coat. I began to apply my makeup, with more effort than usual. The soft brushes tickled my cheeks as they concealed my imperfections. The droplets on my eyelashes had vanished and I coated the strands in thick layers of my best mascara. I wanted to look perfect.

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?

The house that I’ve grew up in is very unique, my parents built it by hand, no help from anyone besides some family and friends. My dad and his ex wife started building it before they got divorced, and there was only 2 floors because then it was only a home for a family of 4. When my mom and dad got married they had to build more onto it because the family of 4 turned into a family of 6. Plus both of my parents would help anyone that needed it, and so they became foster parents. All my siblings and their children call where I live “The Farm” because our house sits on around 450 acres land, that have anywhere from horse and cows grazing in it at almost all times to baling hay during the summer months. There is always something going on at The Farm.

The house that I’ve grown up in is very unique, my parents built it by hand. With no help from anyone besides some family and friends. My dad and his ex wife started building it before they got divorced, and there was only 2 floors because then it was only a home for a family of 4. When my mom and dad got married they had to build more onto it because the family of 4 turned into a family of 6. Plus both of my parents would help anyone that needed it, and so they became foster parents. All my siblings and their children call where I live “The Farm” because our house sits on around 450 acres land, that have anywhere from horse and cows grazing on it at almost all times year, to baling hay during the summer months. There is always something going on at The Farm.

The back door of the moving truck slammed shut, making me slightly jump gasping in surprise. I turned in my seat and look at the house, I've lived my whole life in. Gloomily I stare remembering all the happy and sad times I've had here.

Listed on Airbnb, Jessica’s home in Queens New York is bright, spacious and simple. With 2 levels, the house has a fully stocked kitchen, 2 large bedrooms and 2 showers and toilets for you and your family.

The Living Room in the back of my house has taught me to laugh at myself, to appreciate all that I have, and that while places may look different throughout time we are the ones who decide if that place holds a meaning to us despite its changes. My living room is a chapter of how my home in dry, flat, and hot Texas has affected who I am today and how I tell my story. The neighborhood I live in has this certain atmosphere, that once you turn on to our old grave like roads, you feel safe and at home. At the entrance you are welcomed by a park that reminds me of Sunday afternoons and sticky ice cream hands. My house sits in the middle of the neighborhood where at one end you’ve found yourself near the park and the other end you find yourself in the edge of a busy road surrounded by corner stores and our local grocery store. My box like house seemed as though parties were always occurring, but without the cars lined up and down the street, everyone around us quickly figured out that almost the entire Mondragon family had moved into the same neighborhood.

As you pull into the driveway you see a black mailbox. You see the house is light brown starting on the right side there is a small garage door to the right of that there are three beige large garage doors. As you move to the other side you see a overhang with a tiny bell and a flag over it. Once you move over some more you see some glass four by six windows covering the rest of the front of the house.