Descriptive Essay On A Chicken 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.

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.

It was a quite a normal fall day out here in Louisiana. The year was 1930, my daughter and I had been out working in the barnyard. “Lauren, work faster the guest will be here soon for Thanksgiving dinner.” I exclaimed to Lauren as she was cleaning the pigsty. Soon we were to have our family and friends come to visit us for Thanksgiving. I don’t necessarily like having guest, since they’re always a lot of cleaning do. Actually, cleaning wasn’t the problem since we lived in a very small house out in the country. The problem was food was very scarce for us, so we worked extremely hard. You see, out here in Louisiana it wasn’t easy to be wealthy so half of the town was what you would call ‘poor’.We can’t provide them with a lot of food,

The Cumberland Plateau, a great jut of rock that stands at the foot of the Appalachian mountain range, tops out at 3,000 feet. The homes that rest along its knobby, heavily forested spine are sparse and rural. I stood on the open porch of my dad’s back yard, letting the ice wind cocoon me and soak into my bones. I love the winter in Tennessee. The air is clean and crisp in a way that it could never be in the warm, salty environment of my south Alabama home. My daughter, four years old and thickly wrapped in her own cocoon of winter coat, long-sleeve shirts and thermals, is holding my leg as if the wind will snatch her from me and carry her north and north to a place where the winds never cease. Alivia has always been uneasy on windy days. Her

The day was gloomy and a bit chilly−a perfect day for a funeral if that was possible−as she sat on the folding chair staring at the bronze casket a few feet from her. Ruth recalled while growing up her grandfather always treated her special and they shared many good times. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wanted to smile knowing shortly her grandfather would be laid to rest beside the love of his life, her grandmother. Since his heart attack she had visited him daily at the Mountaineer Nursing Home. He told her stories about the ghost on Putney Mountain, the loud screams in the day and the lights at night. Sometimes he talked about the secrets of Howardsville and promised one day he would divulge them to her. However, he passed away before

To the left of the barn, snow gleamed in the sunlight, and a rock pyramid rose out of the field. With their backs to the wind, cattle circled the rocks. I stood on the porch of his farmhouse, and think of my great-grandfather’s farm. As he finished work on a winter’s evening, he opened his tobacco pouch.

On November 30th, 2015, I ventured to the Santa Monica Convalescent Center to spend time with patients in the dementia ward. At first, I thought I would not enjoy spending almost two hours with people who were unable to be cognitively present due to varying degrees of dementia and Alzheimer’s, which impairs their ability to retain memories and sometimes returns them to an almost baby-like mindset. However, I soon formed several bonds with many of the residents there. A woman named Kathy, a volunteer from nearby Presbyterian church, handed out copies of well known Christian hymns and soon everyone was chiming in as best as they could. I then sat down across from a woman named Alice and asked her about her life. She is an elderly African American woman who answered my questions with very opinionated and interesting answers.

Camp Smile a Mile, a camp established for children and teens who are off or on therapy with cancer. I am one of those young people who have grown up with Camp Sam in my life. Nine years of my life to be exact.

We’ve just finished eating an amazing birthday dinner filled with the smell of a baking cake. With all of the closer older members of our family, that live in Elkin, North Carolina. I have to say I don’t really know many of them by name, but I’m familiar with what they look. I know it’s sad to say it like that but we don’t see them that often. I only remember them by the whitened haired wrinkled skin, lose fitting tanned colored church clothing, each taller and short. This site just isn’t normal to me. Still for today; we all came to Naomi’s home to celebrate one of the great uncles birthdays, he turned 78 today.

The old rusted home was built in the 1800’s for troubled adolescents was still standing after all these years. There were many rumors about the group home and what was going on inside.

Restful Haven Nursing Home was a 1980’s two-storey brick building, reminiscent of a shabby low budget hotel in which couples, married but not necessarily to each other take pleasure in brief clandestine dalliances. It sat just off a busy roundabout and the service road leading to it also offered access to a Travel Lodge, a huge One-Stop garage and a McDonald's. However, it would be a mistake to imagine that the home's position, implied an ongoing inclusivity in society for the people who found themselves resident there. For whilst on the whole the hotel guests, travellers and food connoisseurs could still conceptualise a speculative life span ahead of them the residents at Restful Haven were no longer afforded that luxury. On arrival, for the lucid ones at least, there was an unspoken recognition that it was almost certainly a one-way journey, to be embarked upon slowly, worn out joints and trepidation each on their part vying for supremacy. However, once those and all other earthly afflictions had been finally cast aside, they mostly left the home at high speed in a vehicle with blacked out windows whose graphics

October 21- I have arrived at the destination. It seems to be a very run down barn, falling apart at the framing. I am extremely weary and I’m suffering from lack of rest. There is a very subtle, soft light coming from inside the structure. Part of me wanted to charge into the barn and grab my grandchildren; although, I know that I must strategize in order to keep them

Once upon a time, a chicken named Steve Shays and was enjoying life and earning a living wage when one day a muscular and big man grabbed him by his neck and threw him into a rickety old cage with rust and mesh and barely enough room to move his legs. There were chickens big and small, old and young stuck in other cages. Some of the chickens were not as lucky as he was. Some had broken wings or eyeballs that were poked out of their sockets. Then the cages started to move slowly, but the ground blurred and wind rushed down his feathers. He felt as if his wings and feathers are about to be ripped to shreds. Clouds of dust burned his eyes and lungs. After many days of dehydration and starvation the truck finally stopped at a looming wood building.

When I first walked into my friend Betsy’s parent’s retirement home center on December 8th at 10am, I saw some elderly people sitting on sofas, another using a walker to get to the kitchen, and some others sitting on their wheelchair watching the television. The living room smelled like a hospital that consists of different medications in the air, but the scent feels fresh from the open window next to them at the same time. Betsy introduced me to an old man named Alfred, who was the first person I interviewed.

One place that I see every day but don’t put much attention to is my house. The house that I live in is near by a park and a gas station. My house is small and cozy is made of steel frames, the anterior part of the house has a beige and pink color that combine a beautiful shade. The inside of my house has many portraits of family members and drawings. I have a total of two bathrooms and four rooms a kitchen and two living rooms. We have a living room that’s used for grown-ups and the other one is used for the children. The kitchen table and chairs are made of wood, in the ceiling there is big chandelier. The walls of my house are painted in different colors that are green, beige and pink. I like that every room has its own different color, it’s not boring it brings life and shade.