Descriptive Essay On My Family Home

First of all, finding the right house was a challenge. After going to many different homes daily with our realtor, we finally found the one that was meant to be ours. It was a peach color house with all of the paint flaking off the worn out cedar siding. It was a tall two story house with wide white windows, and a porch with missing wood pieces in some spots. My family and I entered the lopsided porch and heard creaking with every loose piece we stepped on. As we entered the home, we instantly smelled must and mold. That didn't scare us off because we saw the potential behind the old cracked plaster walls. We looked past the ancient golden wood cabinets hanging in the kitchen and the pet-stained green carpeting. In the bedrooms, there was a small closet in each room with barely enough room to fit

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

It was early on Sunday morning when I went to the rummage sale down the street. My mom brought me every year while I was growing up. Out of all the houses, she always insisted on visiting this specific one. It was a tall blue house right on the corner of our street. It had white shutters and white window frames and a big white door smack dab in the middle of the white porch. The exterior of the house wasn’t very decorated. It was pretty vanilla as I like to say because it was plain, but it still intrigued me. The grass was what caught my eye the most. It was always cut very short, almost like the green of a golf course. I figured keeping it that nice must’ve taken a lot of work yet I never saw anyone ever cut it. The driveway was pretty

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.

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 grew up in a city called Thornton in the state of Colorado. The neighborhood i lived in is known as Skylake Ranch and it’s an up and coming prosperous suburbia. Two blocks behind my house was the wealthier neighborhood, and three blocks in front of my home was old run down houses. Our area had a strict HOA so we could only have specific things in front of our house also only a handful of colors we could paint our homes, yet on the other side of the street the HOA didn't control the area. It was unique seeing what the strict housing looked like side by side with the HOA free houses. The area surrounding my childhood home was a melting pot. Directly across the street we had neighbors from Ecuador while our next door neighbors legally immigrated from china. Education level differed from house to house just on my block alone. Everyone was first time home owners in these newly built houses we lived in. While the neighborhood had all its original tenets everyone would help each other with building fences, or with other tasks for the exterior of the homes. Regardless of where anyone originally came if there was a man in his garage all the dads would soon follow into the same garage and share drinks and talk for a few hours at a time. My neighborhood was split between blue collar, and white collar employees. It was also split between liberals, and conservatives. Though my child hood neighborhood was a melting pot with different ethnic, and political beliefs if I had

As I walk through the door, two tiny humans greet me shouting, “Aunt Lee Lee! Aunt Lee Lee!” A wave of relaxation and love over flows me from head to toe. The smell of pumpkin fills the autumn air. My sister comes waddling around the corner with a big belly carrying my third blessing, ah, I’m home.

Ordinarily, traveling to the “middle of nowhere” is just that—going nowhere. However, to me it means the neighbor-less neighborhood, called backcountry. I live in the “middle of nowhere” for half of the time; the other half I live in an ever-growing college city, Columbia. I have cultivated a special appreciation for each journey home through the winding Missouri back roads that bring me to the place where my soul rests. Though the roads may take me to one of my houses, my home exists far beyond its walls.

It was a gigantic sound which came from the kitchen room and I and my cousin sister, Shaky, came out from our room. Not only me and my cousin but also our whole family including the neighbors came by heard that massive sound.

Pebbles fly as my Jeep takes a corner too fast, my body lurching to the left at the sudden force of the turn. I’m finally on Green, a quiet dirt road that stretches from Bennett Lake to Parshallville, a scenic detour I ride down that lets me clear my head. I’ve only lived in the area for two years, but those two years gave me something timeless--a home. My home isn’t some conventional house in the suburbs, although I did live in such a house, but it is the roads and the fields that webbed their way throughout and past my city, and the memories I make with others while on them. I glance at my sister Ken next to me; her right arm stretching lazily out of the window, the other scrolling the radio’s knob, attempting to find a worthy song to play. She’s only nineteen, with hair shorter and blonder than my own. Her presence soothes me, as if every pleasant memory we grew up making together was somehow brought back through each of her smiles. She is my closest friend; she not only provides the part of my home that allows me to be heard by someone who understands, but also the knowledge that we cherish the same home. I pull my attention away from her, watching the fields and houses quickly slip by. The few farmhouses we pass begin to fade until all that borders the road are giant trees, each tipping over us to create a canopy of leaves.

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.

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.

My home, my home sweet home the place where I’m in peace and escape from the busy and crazy world. I moved into this house when I was about 6 or 7 and I have countless of wonderful memories that happened here but also some pretty crummy ones. My house isn't very big, but it isn't small it’s the perfect size for just me and my mom. The walls of my house are close to a vanilla color, but have become a bit dirty over the years and the ceiling of it has some water damage because of the few times it rains here. It’s also very noisy throughout the day and night because of the busy road right behind us. There are so many cars that go by every day and sometimes they wake me up at at the wee hours of the morning. It's usually a massive truck that comes down the road at the same time every night honking it’s horn that trembles and shakes the walls of our house. It’s also a lot of people acting up and speeding or racing down the road. What I really do love about my house is the view we get when you step into the backyard. There's a huge desert and then we have a perfect view of the mountain where the tram is at. I love going out there at night because it's very quiet at times and you can see all the stars and the lights of the city.

It was 1973. No just kidding. It is 2017 I have just moved into a new house. At my old house, there was a playground in my backyard. We made it all by ourselves, 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.

Linda Bennett once said “Our homes represent more than our financial assets; they have a deep and unique emotional meaning. Our earliest memories of home are often connected to our childhood.” To me home is where my family is, it’s where I was raised. No matter how far away you move from your home, it will always mean as much to you now as it did back then. Everyone’s home is the building block of the foundation of their future development as a person.