My Place : My Memories Of My Childhood Place

I stood in the big pale yellow house that was owned by my mother and my over-cranky step-father. It was a really ancient house even though it wasn’t built to long ago. The strawberry-milk colored shutters were creaky when opened, the paint on the outer part of the mansion like structure was peeling rapidly by the day. The indoor part of the house was the most beautiful, starting off with a BIG parlor, that extended into a long hallway with two bedrooms and a bathroom on each side. It ended into a grand living room with white walls and black carpeting with pictures of family hogging the wall. A big flat-screen TV occupied the far-corner of the living room. At the back of the living room stood a tall marble counter with birch-wood barstools and small wooden cupboards with pots and pans stored within its dark interior. The kitchen itself has a black rug in front of a steel sink with black refrigerator in the back corner with a huge oven alongside it and a microwave installed in the wall next to the freezer. In the living room behind the couch is a staircase that leads down into what seems like eternal darkness but eventually ends into a huge man-cave with a pool table occupying the far corner of the basement. In the other end of the room lies a room with a big beige sofa which is very old, with fluff and

The agency I chose to interview was MyHouse at 300 North Willow in Wasilla, Alaska. Their mission is to provide safe shelter for homeless youth with a goal of connecting kids to a network of caring individuals and agencies able to assist them in becoming self-sufficient. They have a board of directors that meet regularly to discuss issues and where to go next with the agency.

I am isolated from the others. The people of the main streets of Italy are very far from the island of Sicily in which I live. I live a basic lifestyle and live off the fat of the land as I tend my animals and eat my crops. I always lived my life afraid as if other people would judge me and point out my differences. This was who I was until the day that I decided enough was enough and I was going to venture into society and reveal myself. From my cave, I have seen boats travel to here occasionally and they have always left after some time. This was my way out I told myself. I knew the ships would lead to the mainland so I waited two days until the sound of the boat horn pierced my ears.

WASHINGTON — Last month I spoke on a panel here, organized by the Historical Society of Washington, about how local authors like me use “place” in our work. The building where the panel was held — the Carnegie Library, a gleaming Beaux-Arts structure gifted to the city a century ago by the industrialist Andrew Carnegie — has become the latest sign of Washington’s gentrifying times: Apple recently released plans to convert the building, long a civic space, into a lavish retail store.

Based on the assigned material I have decided on 3 major things that I would change about my current center’s outdoor space.

As far as families go, mine is definitely a ‘variety pack’. My father, an engineer, and my mother, an occupational therapist, raised my four younger siblings and I to be independent, open-minded, and selfless individuals. We were brought up to respect the world around us, think for ourselves, and appreciate others opinions, even if they differed from our own. My family’s hometown of DeWitt, Iowa is one of those cliché places where bare feet and fishing define summertime and winter revolves around snowball fights with the neighbors. DeWitt is one of those communities where everyone is willing to lend a helping hand, whether or not they know the person in need. Humility and kindness are valued and are constantly displayed on both community and

After looking to the left, there is an odd door that seems to be out of place. The door is about half the size of a regular door. This room is known as the toy room. The room use to be more fun when I was younger, but it is still fun to go in today. Once you enter the room, a smell of pine swirls around you. Under the slanted ceiling are two twin beds. My brother likes to sleep in this room by himself. In this room there are board games, dolls, marbles, cards, legos, more toys. When I was younger, this room seemed like a dream. To have a room jam packed with nothing but toys is

Ali is 16 and 9 months pregnant, she hasn’t told the father yet and she’s extremely stressed. She is in the middle of Junior year and doesn’t desire to drop out since her baby that she’s named Lexi. Ali is currently finishing her homework from last night that she missed since she had morning sickness. Let’s begin the story….

Childhood is a time recalled through rose colored glasses. Wild summers, cozy winters, dinner at the kitchen table are just a few of those memories. At nearly twenty-two, my childhood is

It was a sunny afternoon, clouds were spread around the sky. Standing in the front yard the trees were dancing and it felt like the leaves were waving to me and making a slapping sound Stepping away from the tree shade, the rays of the sun strikes at my face like a flashing light that blinded my eyes. I covered my eyes with my hands and slowly removed them. I took few steps to move to the other side and stepped down to the hard concrete ground. My bare feet felt the hot concrete ground; it was like I stepped on hot lava. I quickly ran to the backyard to feel the cold grass touching my feet. Slowly I felt the grass and I had a refreshing feeling in my whole body. I could smell the fresh cut blade the texture of needles poked at first, but then

We live in a world where different does scare us, which is why we come up with all these labels of “gay”, “straight”, “black”, “white”, etc… we feel like we have to have a way to identify each other. Why can’t we all just be? We’re all people, that much we all have in common, so why can’t we just accept that, that we are all “human”? Why do we have to come up with all these labels? Let me tell you my story, a story of many places, races, and countless labels where nobody seems to fit in, and for that exact same reason everybody like me fits in.

As I take my first steps onto the grass, I can feel the soft ground beneath my feet. I hear the whistling wind blowing in my hair.I can smell the freshly cut lawn and the newly planted soil. The bright yellow sun beats down on my face. I can hear the birds chirping in the distance but to me this means nothing. The birds stop chirping, the wind goes silent, it’s just me and the field. I envision a place where you never worry, one where I can be alone and free of all responsibility. I look up at the empty bleachers and close my eyes to imagine the sound of yelling fans. The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers right off the grill, the buttery mouthwatering popcorn. I drop the ball to my feet, take in a breath and take my first touches, each touch

During my time outside, I experienced temperature changing from reasonable during the day at about five p.m., to bone chilling during the hours of six to seven p.m. During the whole entire time outside, I felt wind run across my face and through my hair. I noticed the temperature start to transition from warm to cold as the sun began to set. To my dismay, I became cold at an alarming rate. However, at a certain temperature I didn’t notice a further drop in temperature. Sadly, the wind seemed to pick up and enhance the cold temperature hitting me. I soon made my trek back to my home.

Before I took Taekwondo I was a quiet, shy, and introvert type of person, I never really could talk to people, I would always felt like I would annoy everyone I tried talking to. I always felt like an outcast in my own community, I never felt included in anything the other kids my age would do. I always felt like I was not normal and that it was a bad thing to be different because nobody ever encouraged me to do my best and nobody ever supported me nor ever believed in me. And all the negativity really got to me at some point during my childhood and I fell into a deep depression stage one where not only the kids around me were tormenting me but where I tormented myself. I didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to, I always felt so alone like

Places are more than less often full of memories. Rooms have narratives that can be told through the items and furniture they contain. These narratives are often overlooked and not thought about, especially in places where one does not want to spend a particularly large amount of time. Rooms speak, even though we often don’t want to listen, or don’t want to know. Basements are often like this, full of broken thing and memories, knee-deep castaways, childhood toys and holiday lights. The basement in my childhood home is this way, completely divided into then and now; simply, entirely, depressing.