Marisa's Descriptive Essay: A Day At Home

After studying women and gender history in early America for the past semester, my views about American history have changed tremendously. Having very little prior experience with history, I had many assumptions and preconceived notions from high school history classes. Women were never even mentioned in my previous learning about U.S. history, so I assumed they took on unimportant roles and had little, if any, impact on shaping our country’s history. However, after this semester of delving deeply into the women of early America, I could not have been more incorrect. Although they were not typically in the public realm, we cannot fully understand history without studying women. The following readings uncovered the roles of women in the private sphere and were crucial to my new understanding of the importance of women in American history by bringing women to the forefront.

Penny Pepperstein's in. the. house! It has been awhile readers but I am here again and back in action. Working with the NightLifeCo and of course my own Penny Peppersteins' Rock Bloggin' The Big O I will bring to you talented artists in every genre and I will bring to you the places to find them. Omaha thrives on entertainment and we need a place to enjoy that entertainment. Join me on this ride and hang on tight because things are about to get interesting.

Fun Home is a retelling of Alison Bechdel’s life through the lens of her relationship with her father. However, because of what she considers to have been his suicide, Alison is left with an incomplete picture of who he was in life. By calling Fun Home an autobiography, Bechdel enters an autobiographical pact with the reader that ensures that what Bechdel is telling us is the truth. However, elements out of her control leave Bechdel unable to provide certain objective facts necessary to her narrative. As an attempt to remedy these absences and in turn maintain the validity of her story, Bechdel uses intertextuality to fill in the gaps of in her retelling. By overlaying masterplots of fictional narratives over her own, the reader is able to get at an understanding of the kind of person Alison’s father was. In this way Bechdel is able to reveal things about her father that she can 't prove to be true, but are reflective enough of his life to become true.

The following morning the crisp air and golden sun flowed brilliantly into her room through the open window. The posts of the window where scratched up wood with an old part of a blond colored sheet covering it. Her sleepy eyes blinked slowly as the day began. After a whole evening and morning with the thought of school, a tornado of yes, no, maybe, and back again spiraling around. This went on about the dreary feeling morning. Her usual smile upside down and the sides drooping far down. When she finally got up and out of the rickety, springy feeling frame of the puffy stuffing, cloud like bed. Hesitantly climbing down the ladder

The day has just begun, after the hibernation in the small cottage hotel room. Plunk of brightness blanketed the whole trees and soil which revealed some small black creatures carrying small picks of food from the ground, to their nest. The color of the lively lizard blended into the soil. Rich aroma of the breakfast tickled my nose of crispy bread that smelled like it just has been freshly baked, mellow juice squeezed from the raw fruit of sour orange, sugary desserts of sweet and bitter chocolate, and millions of freshness. Dishes were clinking, clanking and clogging around, forks, knives and spoons were playing jazz. Regardless that it’s already past dawn.

A golden light shines through the apartment windows. After drawing open the last curtain, Elowen rests on the window seat and places her breakfast on an unpacked cardboard box. She watches the aftermath of the morning storm cover the city below in a thick, shiny glaze. These are her favourite mornings, when her mother works an early shift. Something about waking up in a quiet house gives her a sense of peacefulness.

Walking home from school on a Friday afternoon, Victoria and I stopped at our favorite restaurant to get a bite to eat.   Whenever we go there we love talking to our favorite employee, Melissa.  Melissa is always there and knows just what we want to eat.  On that Friday, Melissa wasn’t there and Victoria and I were worried sick about her.  We asked the man working if he knew where she was and he said she didn’t come in today, and the manager called to make sure she was okay and she didn’t answer her cell phone.

It was a rainy morning, giving off a gloomy vibe. Justin's alarm clock went off, softly humming out a light and comforting tune. Sitting up and stretching out his arms, Justin rubs his eyes and blinks away sleepiness. "Good morning sun!~" He grins at the sun as it peeks into his room, lightening it. Throwing off his covers, he gets up and walks to his mirror. He yawned and ruffles his short and messy brown hair. The mop he called his hair was a bit longer on one side than it was the other, reaching down to his shoulder. His blue eyes sparkled as he walked over to his dresser, opening a few drawers.

As the sun glistens through the long dark shredded curtains covering a big old dirty window. It creeps across the messiness of wrinkled sheets,and lands on your smooth,freckled skin. It gives you a warm and bubbly feeling. Your eyes flutter open slowly as you yawn and stretch your aching long body from the glorious sleep you just had awoken from. You crawl out of bed as slow as a sloth to soon go through the jungle of cloths you have.

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.

I stood for a second and took a deep breath of fresh air. The crisp, untouched air flowed as I inhaled the new environment. Too much air began to drift towards me because I was the only one there. It seemed as if everything around me was empty yet, I knew there were others around. It was a surreal moment, nothing but my thoughts and my family populated the airport. As we slowly wandered to the car, the quiet and serene area engulfed us. We remained silent the entire journey to the car; we were too shocked about moving to Michigan to talk. Clear droplets slowly began to fall on the window pane. Each one becoming more and more aggressive and mesmerizing. The loop of the pitter-patter was all I could hear even though my parents were making small talk. In Mexico, I would watch all the people on the street, all the stores and billboard signs and tall buildings. My favorite thing to watch were the lights on a car when it was raining, but now no one would stay close enough to see their lights though the backseat window. My dad was excited that we had come “home”, but it wasn’t home anymore. It’s just where we had once lived and where my family was. People always say that your home is your family, but that’s just a cutesy fib they put on cooking shows to make you love your family. The smooth roads and empty streets, are not my home. They are this weird place that feels like a pile of dirt. It’s not very exciting or rare. You can look through it and find a few special gems, but

As the morning quickly approached, basking the lands within the gentle caress of warmth from the kiss of light that painted the sky various shades - the female couldn't help but resent the sun for the first time in her life. The awkward angle had drawn forth a slight crick at the base of her neck, making any form of movement sluggish and slightly painful. If the angle alone did not cause her resentment, it was the lack of a decent nights sleep. It was rare that she even stayed up past the sunset, the cool air often forcing her to retire early an attempt to pass the time by. For the first time in her life, she had pushed past her exhaustion and pain, choosing to stay up with someone who...

The sun’s ebullient flares twisted to the ground, reflecting on the Michigan lake. A gentle breeze ruffled through the grass, catching dandelions and releasing them to the sky The sun was shyly peeking out from behind the mountain and painting the sky brilliant splotches of orange and pink. The leaves fluttering in the air greeted the clouds. A gaping opening in the mountains led to a small town, leading to a small house neatly tucked away beneath a Sequoia tree. The houses bricks were painted a lovely shade of yellow. Flowers were planted in the beautifully manicured lawn. Adeline awoke to the sun projecting through her large window with paisley curtains. She stretched out her arms and glided to the window. Adeline was enthralled by the sky draped in staggering colors. Her red alarm clock interrupted the magnificent view.

My definition for home indescribable by words 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.