Personal Essay : A Place To Stand On

Of all the forms of literature, the most interesting might be the fairytales, or the science fiction thriller about robots. However, there lacks the sense of truth, in a way blocking the reader from true connection with the story. Memoir is real, memoir is true, and memoir can range from any end of the ocean in structure and theme.

“Mrs. Manstey’s View,” a short story about the end of an old woman’s life, has a strong theme of the importance of nature. The titular woman has very little left in her life besides a small home with an extraordinary view of gardens and flowers. Indeed, early in the story, she states, “Mrs. Manstey’s real friends were the denizens of the yard, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot…” This dedication to her view causes a huge upheaval when a neighbor plans to expand her house, cutting off the view mentioned in the title.

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.

Everyday on my short hike home from school, I strolled by her house and inhaled the freshness and beauty of her home. If you looked at her house, you would detect a beautiful array of azaleas, bushes, trees, and other beautiful flowers. More of her property consisted of flowers than a house. The small cottage she lived in hat a tin roof. Every morning, I would see Miss Maudie, wearing her sunhat and dress, water flowers in her front yard. Everyone in the town knew that Maudie Atkinson possessed her garden most off all. I remember when her house burned down, and she didn’t appear to be upset at all. She rambled continuously about how much she could grow her garden. She possessed what I would consider an outstanding quality, the ability to see the good in anything.

Early the next evening, we raced up the highway for a few hours before coming to a single-story stucco home situated between two wooded, slow-sloping hills in a long narrow valley. The front lawn spread out beneath a terrace, its blades entwined with delicate dandelions that danced in unison with the breeze. Yellow roses and silver hydrangeas sprawled out in a gusty garden surrounded by yew hedges shaped like miniature elephants. If I squinted, I could make out a path that zigzagged between stubbly-needled pine trees, and the presence of a pond by the flashes of reflected light. Beyond the water were tiny purple grapevines, transformed in the soft glow of twilight to ginger.

In the front of the living room and both large bedrooms were sliding doors that led to a wide balcony that showed the beautiful ocean, beach, and sky. After exploring the condo and all the rooms, my family and I moved on to adventure outside. It was a nice, yet chilly afternoon so we decided to admire the many restaurants and shops. After my grandparents arrived, we had a dinner of amazing, juicy burgers. Next we moved on to explore the beach. The sand was cool, and the small, sharp seashells stabbed at your feet as you walked. We watched the beautiful image of the sun sinking into the pink and orange sky as we felt and smelled the cold salt water against our feet.

Perhaps, Sunny Hill Cottage and its significance is best explained by the memories my family and I formed. Memories such as the night of the Fourth of July. These lasting memories surpassed the gloom of the cottage. Furthermore, these memories exceeded the lackluster appearance of the deteriorated white outside walls with the damaged shutters. The musty inside of the cottage with its faded colors is replaced by my memories. Despite, the despair of Sunny Hill Cottage there are enduring memories, in which will be appreciated for a

On the edge of Dallas, bordering the suburbs, I come from a home that is no longer mine. My family has moved, but that place is engraved in me as the initials of my family is engraved on the top step of the porch. I miss its five steps to the door, I miss its pink bricks that nowadays are hard to find, I miss its 12 orange squares designed on the front and alongside the wide open window that welcomed the light from dawn to dusk. It was homey and comfortable, in it occupied my mother’s huge kitchen, a spacey living room and orange tiles in the main bathroom. The house was not big and luxurious, but it was perfect to me. The best yet was its location, I could easily find a McDonalds, Walmart, a library, plenty of thrift stores, Cici’s Pizza,

I was 12 when we first moved into our house in Hawaii. It was a huge change in our lifestyle. We had come from Canada where we were used to cold weather and short summers. But Hawaii was the opposite of this. Everything was going great for a while. I really liked my school, the people, and the beaches that would take your breath away. Most of all I love my house. It was gorgeous! As you walked up to it, there was a big blue door that matched the colour of my eyes. With tall ceilings, a giant kitchen, and luxurious bathrooms, the house was like a dream come true. The house even came with beautiful grey couches. It was very complex, almost like a mansion! The kitchen and the living were together in a giant area with the dining room to the

You hear the whispered shuffling of nearly silent footsteps across shag carpeting. Soft hands surround you, shrouding you in darkness and leaving only overbearing cherry lotion scents to give you a sense of where you are. A nauseating feeling comes in as you feel yourself rising, the air ever so slightly vocalizing a hushed whoosh on every side of you. A flood of warm ochre light blinds you for a moment, bringing you back to awareness. The hands that startled you before now carefully tear the plastic that once coated your body off, and you can feel their warmth much stronger than when they first held you. An air bubble pops quietly and you quickly find that a rubbing motion is spreading parts of you over rough lips that exhale a wind

After the family reunion, we drove back to our new duplex apartment. Now the unpacking days had begun. Our little duplex had three rooms which were all connected by the hallway; my sister and I got the bigger of the rooms that was not the master. My little brother got the tiny room while my parents got the masters bedroom with a bathroom. The living room was fairly big, that is, till all of our furniture filled the room. The kitchen was connected to the living room and also the dining room. Along with rest of the apartment, the kitchen was also small with a sink, refrigerator, cabinets, and pantry on one side then the stove, counter, and small closet which stored the washer and dryer. The neighborhood was in a small rural town next to a ball park. One of the things that I had to get used to was seeing and hearing nothing at night, except for trains, compared to the noises of the busy sounds of cars coming to and from the city at the bottom of the hill as well as the brightly lit orange street lamps that flooded into my room at night.

A long driveway with potholes leads you there. It was always my favorite thing about it. The car shakes and wobbles with every hole. The make shift parking pad of the house was just part of the grass that slowly died due to the lack of sun. When I was a child, pulling up to that Garnet home brought this bubble of joy into my throat. A small home with a screened in porch and large yard. That home is a place I would go back to if I could because it holds far more happy memories than any other place.

The Self Every situation that an individual is exposed to throughout life, helps mold our “self.” As humans we have the ability to see ourselves from the outside, and all through life we try to see what others see and our “self” revolves around the generalized other. We observe how others perceive us and we make conclusions depending on our observations. How we act around others depends on the image we feel they have towards us.

Before there was technology, people had need of people; it was imperative. There once was a man who was deprived of his own basic needs. Although he was having a dire time himself, it didn’t stop him from aiding others. He neglected his own problems just to relieve others of theirs. One day, he met a woman, who was one step away from breaking down, her past was eating away at her. She turned a blind eye on what mattered the most, her happiness. Being the person he was, the man wasn’t going to let her erode away. When he approached her with his warm heart, she averted herself away from him. No matter how many times he was given the cold shoulder, he persevered. Like a stubborn mule, he didn’t give up. Soon, she started