Descriptive Essay About My House

I’m just getting in the door, and I say to myself “oh course it has to be a two story house.” As I walk into the house I get shivers up my spine, and I know something is in the house I just don’t know what. As me being the curious one I know I have to keep going, and there I was standing in the doorway of a “haunted house.” I looked all through the living room, but I didn’t see anything. I was as scared as a jack-rabbit that had heard the howl of a wolf. I was just about to step on the first step, but I heard something run right past me. I turned around quicker than the speed of light, but then again nothing was there. I walked all the way up the stairs, and I started looking in the rooms. In the last room I checked I saw something crouched down in the corner.

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.

For the past three hundred years I have been sitting in the same spot all day long. I was buit in the worst neighborhood. It isn’t as bad as bad as around Halloween night. Every single person who comes in my neighborhood on Halloween night, is dared to come inside. All the children have made stories saying I am haunted but believe me I am not. It wasn’t always like this. I used to be the best house in the neighborhood. I was filled with antiques. Furniture imported from Paris. I had parties lined up. Then the years past a storm hit and I was only a house no longer a home. Little did I know that it was all about to change. One day around October 30, the day before Halloween, a very nice young lady ,named Samantha , was dared to come inside.

Set on a ridge overlooking the beautiful Olympic mountains -you will truly love this unique home. A blend of Japanese and northwestern architecture gives the house a perfect feel for a relaxing yoga retreat or any vacation. With its traditional Tatami room and spectacular Japanese blue tile roof this spacious home will give you the sublime rest and rejuvenation that you deserve!

I sat there, with the dark, cold sand running through my fingers. My sisters running through the tall, sharp grass as if it weren’t even there. At the river bank, my parents were talking with a man who I had never seen before. Behind them, I could see the sun setting though the trees, the orange, pink and yellow colors reflecting off of the river. The massive maple, hickory and pine trees cast shadows onto the abandoned sandlot, the sandlot that would soon be purchased by my parents, and turned into my new home. The one story, three bedrooms, and one bath house we are living in would soon be packed away and brought to the new house. This house was just that, a house. I considered this house a place where I would eat, sleep, and do my homework at. I shared a room and a bed with my youngest sister, while my oldest and second youngest sister shared the other. My parents had a makeshift room with a small bed and a box TV in it. Six people in a one-story house is overwhelming, but my parents made the best of what we had. Even at night, when you could hear the neighbors next door yelling at each other, my mom would always make us keep our windows closed, until the morning. My family was more than ready for the move to our new home, but it wouldn’t be here for another year or so.

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.

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

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.

Home is something I didn’t even notice, or thought I’d miss, until I’d left for college. And then, I found myself longing for a home I hadn’t noticed was a home. Home feels warm, welcoming, like it should never be left. And yet, we have all left home. It used to be the middle roundtable with the four uncomfortable, a bit too large, chairs in the library. Between 11:10 and 11:40, everyday; home was lunch with my friends. Matt, on my right, and Clark on my left, scrambling to complete the homework due later that day. When I would nap, and my shoes would be stolen by Clark, only to wake up to find Matt had written quotes, not only onto the soles of them, but on my arms as well, in permanent marker. Home was the librarians fondly reprimanding Matt and me for eating in the library, yet still hating Clark for some inexplicable reason, or sneaking in without our school i.d.s, feeling so proud of ourselves when we didn’t have to sit outside. Aaron, relegated to the fourth, uneven chair, whenever he would occasionally visit, only for us to get into a long-standing argument over whether Gandalf or Dumbledore was more powerful, until Matt finally agreed with me, quoting the Silmarillion word for word. Which naturally progressed to quoting the movies at Aaron until he agreed, Clark confused and lost in the conversation. This inevitably led, to us lamenting about Clark not knowing any pop culture besides anime, then trying to boost his confidence, assuring he, out of any of us, wouldn’t

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.

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.

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,

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.

Many things could’ve woken me up that morning: My own worry and fault for not being able to sleep, the moving trucks constant beeping reminding me of my soon departure, or the alarm my mom set the night before. Either way I was going to end up going to bed that night the same way, on the floor of my new house, miles away from my home. I woke with the battle of not knowing whether I was dreaming or if this was reality, and for a few short seconds before my conscious told me why I was up, I had completely forgotten the day ahead of me. I look around at my once poster filled walls of bad boy bands and teen movies. My poster board of movie stubs and notes I had passed around with my friends now perfectly packed up into categorized and clearly labelled containers. I have moved enough in my life to know the drill, though I thought I wouldn’t have to ever recall it again.

I pop up looking curiously around me. My face crumples up in concern. I look out the window and I see no houses. Then, suddenly I see in the distance two houses, one on either side of the street. We pull up to the houses and the cab pulled into the driveway of one of the house. The moving truck stops on the side of the road I get out of the cab. I stared unbelievably at the house that we stopped at. I walk inside and look around. The house is already furnished. The furniture is clean and looks like it hasn't ever been used. By the time I get outside to help get boxes from the moving truck. The taxi, truck, and all the people are gone, leaving the few boxes of my stuff in the driveway. I carry the small boxes into my bedroom. Starting to organize my stuff I hear what I believe to be the doorbell.