Descriptive Essay On My Home

Long Island, New York is my birthplace and my home. I’ve lived here my entire existence of 17 years and I am blessed. I grew up in a 4 bedroom home in a town by the name of Williston Park. My home is a two-story colonial with a large front and back yard. The lush green grass and the variety of plants in the front yard make it aesthetically pleasing. The white siding of the home make it really hard to keep clean. The four windows in the front of the home make it look as if the house is smiling when you go towards it. Most of the homes in my neighborhood are similar in size and basic structure. Many of these homes are occupied by older white couples. Although my town isn't as diverse as the neighboring towns I love my neighborhood. Some of my favorite things to do are having casual conversations with my older neighbor John; going to the many baseball or football fields to play with my friends; go to Roosevelt Field Mall, or go to one of the many restaurants we have, or finally go to a place called Bounce, which is an indoor trampoline park. One of the greatest parts about my neighborhood is the sense of community and how we are able to set our differences aside when people we care about are in need. Growing up on Long Island we don't have as much access to public transportation compared to NYC, so I usually asked my parents for rides or was stuck walking miles to my friend’s house, or wherever else I went. Once I reached the age I really had no choice other than to get my

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.

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

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

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.

The day was definitely not perfect. The trees stood up tall, but with no leaves. The day was cold, with clouds and no sun. And of course, there was a van, parked in my driveway, waiting for me to hop in and take me to a new home.

As I opened the way to the dreadful old frequented house on my road, I began to surmise that perhaps this wasn't such a smart thought. I admonished myself for needing to turn back, and reluctantly ventured inside to investigate. My darker hair and dim dark colored eyes made me for all intents and purposes cover in the wood-framed anteroom, aside from my old dim hooded sweatshirt and agreeable red sweat pants. I was normal tallness for eleven, however I was all the while must admire check for spider webs. I needed to clean my glasses since so much tidy had gathered on them. My hair required washed as of now since so much tidy has gathered on it. As I strolled through the entryway on my right side, I understood this must be the formal fining room. An old, Victorian style table with eight rich seats was clearly the point of convergence of the room, laying on an excellent green, gold, and red conditioned cover. The hardwood flooring around it composed immaculately with the covering, which came roughly 33% of the path up the exquisite gold-painted divider. The tremendous picture window was confined by a custom bureau with a smorgasbord coming to simply beneath the windowsill. My heart was beating, and the room noticed dusty, smelly, and faintly of roses. On the table there was a substantial bunch of red roses, and eight green, red, and gold place mats. Another red rose, each in a thin vase, sat at each place. I chose to look through the bureau by the window to check whether

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.

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.

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.

I have lived in the same small house on Honey Creek road my entire life.The front yard is full of bright green grass, that stands just a little too tall. One ditch is on each side of the long black cement driveway. At the beginning of the driveway are two large, solid boulders. My front yard is large compared to the neighboring yards. It is where my siblings and I would play tag and other games during late summer nights and would build snowmen on cold winter evenings. The same yard that my brother has spent countless hours push mowing the too tall, bright green grass. Looking at the front view of my house, the siding is a light gray and covers the entirety of the one story house. There is a tall red brick chimney off to the right but is hardly ever caught breathing smoke. The roofing is a dark blue with black speckles and the front door is a matching blue painted on very thick. On the front door is a brown wreath hung by a burlap bow. The word family, in a bubbly font, is neatly centered in the middle of the wreath.

I come to this place every year. The beaches of beige sand and the feeling is cold and soft underneath my feet, I instantly feel so at home. The sun is shining and the water is sparkling like glitter in the distance. I turn around to see a brown shingle house with lots of windows staring back at me. I can hear the voices of my family as they gather on the balcony overlooking the beach. There are three families, twenty people all taking a moment on the patio to relish in the fact that the week we all have waited for is here. Despite the yearlong work it takes to put together this vacation, it is a great joy when everyone is together having fun. The beach house becomes a home away from home, full of energy, good food, games, and celebration.

The idea of home is a loose image for me, one that wobbles and threatens to be blown away at the lightest breath. Home will never be a singular place, as I’ve become familiar with too many walls, each a distinct color of beige that is friendly, but not inviting, like a stranger you greet briefly as you skirt around them on the sidewalk. Each house a place to hold the memories I’ve placed in objects, a shell against the cold wind of time that bites harshly at the thin jacket that objects offer to recollection. Houses are nothing more than a box that contains that which I hold dear. Old pictures taken with friends against the hazy background of a summer night 10 years ago, a snow globe from my mother’s business trip, a letter from my brother, all things I would consider to be childhood home above an actual house. Home isn’t a place, it’s an intangible thought that I hold sweetly in my head, one that reminds me of the good, the bad, and those who have touched me throughout my life.

Now the small, white Cape Cod-styled home wasn’t really the prettiest house to look at. The door changed colors quite a few times over the years, but it was always paired with the off-white aluminum siding. The front of the house had shown a view of the living room through the largest windows I had ever seen on such a little house. My grandmother’s gardens, her pride and joy, were strategically placed around the tiny lot. Most of the time they would overgrow and become a hassle that she loved to handle. My little brother’s toys were strewn across the yard for the better part of sixteen-years. He would refuse to put anything away and he’s still the same exact way about his things now. The inside of the house felt like home to anyone who stepped in it. The well-lived space always felt comfortable to be in and everyone felt like family, no matter who you might have been with. It was never the fanciest house; the mismatched furniture, the walls that never were the color my mother wanted them and the 60s-styled linoleum flooring was always questionable. But, the style was never the main focus, that