Grandpas House Essays

The house feels much like people feel when things or people leave their lives; empty, alienated, and sorrowful. The house is almost jealous that the man left to paint other houses and towns because it only cements the fact that this house is not “good enough” to be painted and to keep the interest of a painter because it is nothing special. The last three lines tie the feelings of the house to the feelings of humans in that the house feels sorrow just as people do and it mourns the loss of friendship and relations in general. The house anticipated and will always anticipate that the person in its life for the time will not stay because they never do. The house again blames this fact that no one stays around it to the originality of its design and how because of its originality, it is somewhat awkward or weird. This is true for people too because many are trying to fit into a certain social norm that is accepted by society and if you don’t fir in this box then you are an outsider and are alienated just because they are a little different and do not conform to what everyone around them is doing or saying or

The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of Emily, only fear keeping her feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time she took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as she applied pressure with her foot, she let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed her up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over her like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current, the musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled Emily’s nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if she was to touch it. Mould ate away at

There have been countless influential people in my life that I’ve come across. One who was a meticulous inspiration continues to be my grandfather. My grandmother had remarried to the one I call “grandpa” when I was at the age of five, and they both took to each other’s grandchildren as their own. With my mother and me only living a mile down the road from their farmhouse out in the country, I’d spent heaps amount of time there as a child. Indeed, I had been without a father but my grandfather stepped up to the plate and had taken me under his wing and willingly played the personification of a father figure.

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

The house sat on the mostly yellow, dead grass of street in Perry Iowa. It of course held memories just like many other houses, but this one tried hard to forget the memories. It was once a yellow like the dead grass it sits upon now. The newly painted blue on the house was a fresh start to the house – making new memories – but just like the ones forgotten they drown in the blue color. It’s an unforgettable house, unforgettable like the memories it produced.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

I brought my plate outside, the patterned china seemingly wet in the sun. I took a bite of my sandwich. The cool veggies managed to dull the heat. The cucumbers crunched in the bread as i took another bite, my mind wondering as I set. I could recall all of the gathering held in this yard, both joyful and somber. Gatherings of celebration and mourning. Each year we would sit In the yard, mixed chatter filling the small clearing. Everyone flocked to the small, one story home. Grandmothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, all alike. Each gathering, the numbers seemed to grow. We would all sit, listening, gathering, and sharing stories of one another. Though it is always nice be reunited family and friends, the empty yard is an entirely separate place. As I finished my sandwich, I looked around, almost an hour had passed. I begun to clean up the spot I was occupying, stacking my dishes and

Our house on Orangeburg was not what we expected we all figured it would be like the one near Sherwood with a warm cheerful comforting fireplace and open armed trees gathered around in the front.The house on Orangeburg was crumbled like old ugly bread.Time had managed to make this house look irreversible the house was little more than a glorified shed.At least we don’t

Quiet and unassuming, a modest-looking house lies in the middle of a vast, empty plain, located away from the city and close to the pastoral natural world. Separated from the forceful influences of conformity, but still in touch with the surrounding world, this house is free to think, feel, and experience as it pleases. That’s because this house represents more than the entirety of its physical and visual features; it is a metaphor for my memories, ambitions, secrets, feelings, and emotions.

In the middle of Southern Illinois, where the corn grows fast, and the grass even faster, there lies a town so small, the state actually classifies it as a village. Inside of this Midwestern microcosm is a specific building that has represented something greater than the structures around it. This establishment prides itself on its multifunctional purpose, and consistently excites any guest, regardless of age, who may pass through the worn, oaken doors. As many people enter, few, in the little village of just 3,000 residents, recognize the role it has facilitated from childhood to old age. When it comes to experience, no building in the entirety of the village gives the same

My Grandmother goes by the name of babunya, and baba for short, this means grandma in Ukrainian. She lived in Ukraine for most of her life, and she is almost 90 years old now. She’s been through a lot in her years, thus her appearance has changed. For every wrinkle she has there’s a story to match. She has had every color hair: blonde, red, brown, and black. Now her hair is a short gray color. She keeps it short because it stays out of the way, even though she hates it short. She has always had long her until now. She has also progressively become shorter over the years due to a very bad back; she now stands just under five feet. Since she spends most of her days in the garden her usual outfit

The familiar smell of soft cookies and homemade cooking are common thoughts when people think about their grandma's house. Great feasts and family gatherings play a part in everyone's grandmother's home. But when I really think about my grandma's house only one word comes to my mind: fun.

The crunch of frozen grass could be heard a mile away at five o’clock in the morning. My grandpa and I whispered conversation as we strolled over to our favorite deer blind. We cautiously marched over sticks trying hard not to make any sounds. We eventually made it without spooking any deer and set our guns down, waiting for sunrise. These are the times I enjoy the most with my grandpa. It is a chance to sit back and enjoy life with one of my favorite people on this planet. Time goes slower in these moments. It gives us a chance to share conversation about anything. We swap stories from the past and I always seem to learn something new from my grandpa. Whether it be from advice he gives me or from an experience long ago, I’m always listening. Although our experiences may be different we still love to enjoy the same hobbies together, whether it’s woodworking, hunting, or time out on the lake; sharing life with my grandpa is priceless.

The long family line has imprinted its aura onto the house, and in turn, the house conduces the inhabitants towards a predetermined lifestyle. The Usher family, as the narrator says, despite its age, has always been feeble, because it has never been able to generate an enduring branch. Just as the family, the house has a sturdy appearance, given by its endurance through time, but it is marked by decay and so are its surroundings: the crumbled stones, the trees and the spooky tarn all add to the oppressive, uncanny atmosphere. Just as the individual parts which shape the domain are marked by decomposition, so is each member of the family plagued by some form of disintegration.

My grandmother’s house has a very special place in my heart. As the family has gotten older and we have all had our own children we do not visit as we should. I visited with my grandmother many times when I was little. Her house always seemed to have something about it that set it apart from all the rest. As you walk into the back door of her house you would notice a long, narrow kitchen that led into the main living and dining room of her house. The smell of food home cooked food was quite evident. Grandmother cooked every day and always cooked big meals on holidays for the family.