Descriptive Essay On My Childhood's 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 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.

In a world of noise, there are yet many who have no voice, whose cries go unheard. The world looks at them from afar, rarely embracing them. As for me, actually seeing, touching, and living among those with no voice, so near my childhood home, marked an awakening in me that transitioned my idyllic childhood to adulthood.

The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning

Driving to Long Prairie, on the right side of the road, up a hill with a long, paved driveway will be a house to the left. This house is two-stories with a basement. The first time I saw it, the house had a worn out, light tan vinyl siding with faded, dark red shutters from years of Minnesota weather. At the end of the driveway was a garage that resembled the houses color. To the right of the driveway was a large stone wall that was overrun with wild grape vines. In the middle of the wall was a stairway that leads to an old, rundown playhouse. Also, there was a large, gray brick shed further away. Beyond the house are the woods, littered with pine needles from the rows of trees my grandpa planted when he moved there. The whole area is surrounded by the overpowering smell of pine, and the silence the woods carries; it brings a calming, peaceful sensation to me. As the years have gone on, the house and I have aged, grown, and changed together.

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.

There is one thing that is common in most small, rural Southern towns; appliances on the porch. From deep-freezers to washing machines, if there’s not room in the house you can guarantee there is room on the porch and an extension cord long enough to plug it in. No one thinks it’s unusual as everyone in the neighborhood does it. That’s especially true for the humble, one-stop-light town I was brought up in. The house I lived in my entire childhood had a deep-freezer on the back porch; my second cousin, who lived next door, had a wringer washing machine on her front porch. That washing machine would lead to an incident involving a shotgun, scissors, a trip to the ER and a lifetime of jokes.

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.

I close the car door and step onto the snow covered pavement. The dogs bark inside of my aunt’s house, and my family and I walk in. I am greeted by my aunts, uncles, and grandma on my dad’s side. My cousins, who are much older than me, sit in the living room enjoying the store bought peanuts, popcorn, and trail mix. I make my way past the crowded kitchen and settle on the stained couch. “Yeti”, the classic Christmas SYFY movie, plays on the TV. Unique ornaments cover the Christmas tree, while the dim Christmas lights reveal the dust that lingers on the worn out wooden floor. Before I know it, Lena and Hanse, my aunt’s two boxers, jump on my lap. They lick, drool, and nibble on me with excitement. I pet the dogs, but gently push them onto my sister. Brianne rolls her eyes, and nudges the dogs onto the floor. My grandma rests on the old rocking chair, laughing at the chaos. My aunt Bev sits on the couch beside my grandma. Both are dressed in Christmas sweaters, and have freshly permed hair. It is hard to keep a conversation with them because they both struggle with hearing. Trying to pay attention to the predictable show, my stomach growls; however, the smells that drift into the living room from the kitchen are not appetizing. Therefore, I take a small bowl of popcorn and trail mix.

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 the month of January in 1991. This home will forever be my safety and my delight.

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 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.

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.

Up to this point in my life, I have lived in two homes, though the one I live in now is where I have primarily lived. I have so many vivid memories from these two places that I am constantly looking around remembering all of the good times I had. Moving into my current home was not only a decision to expand on our living space, but give both me and my sister a good place to live. Between the less than desirable neighbors and the small cramped environment, it was a necessary choice to move an I couldn’t be any happier for it.