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I grew up in a one stoplight town, named Quincy. I still remember the jokes about not blinking or you would miss it. My parents got a loan for a simple country home about eight miles east of town. Our house sat on four flat acres of land with an alfalfa field to the back of the property. To the north, the irrigation ditch supplied the essential water for farmers and dairies to succeed amongst the dust bowl. Our neighbor lived in a converted long tin potato shed. At the front of our property, the paved road ran about a mile before it turned into a bumpy gravel road. As a kid, I thought I had it all, growing up in the country. The dark, burnt red house with wood siding and white trim sat in the middle of a large green yard. My brothers and I spent many hours outside. We fed and played with our pets and various farm animals that lived in the scattered outbuildings. An old refrigerator turned on its side, with the ends cut off, had been turned into a rabbit hutch. As I turned the handle to open the oversized chicken coop, the hens clucked and jumped off the roost. In the frantic exit ou...
As night struck I collapsed in my bed exhausted from the day, I felt like I’ve never done that much labor since we first came to Salem. I woke up early afternoon only to see a letter that my dad wrote stating he was going on a hunting trip. Every wednesday I take care of the chickens along with my sister Tara, our chicken coop is a couple of feet from our house and is home to about 12 chickens that are always rowdy.
In the late 20s, life was good down here in the south. The grass was long, tall, and healthy, the wind would graze over the grass like a nice comb over haircut. The crops were plentiful and could be seen for miles. Life was good, we had everything we had ever needed down here on the farm. In the summer, we would have hay bale making contests on our farm. We had a farm of about 27 acres, we grew primarily soybeans and wheat. However, life would change for the worst come the 30s.
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
Thomas lived with his family in a two story house in Windy Hill. He had a little brother names Frankie and a dog named Max. One autumn morning, Thomas jumped out of bed and stared out the window at the quiet cobblestone streets below. Leaves the colors of a brilliant sunset glided and danced along the streets edge, playing a rustling tune. Thomas smiled, he couldn’t wait to see the vending trucks pulling up outside, and the town folks hurrying about as they prepared the streets for the Festival Of Ghouls.
I stumbled onto the porch and hear the decrepit wooden planks creak beneath my feet. The cabin had aged and had succumb to the power of the prime mover in its neglected state. Kudzu vines ran along the structure, strangling the the cedar pillars that held the roof above the porch. One side of the debacle had been defeated by the ensnarement and slouched toward the earth. However, the somber structure survives in spite. It contests sanguine in the grip of the strangling savage. But the master shall prevail and the slave will fall. It will one day be devoured and its remains, buried by its master, never to be unearthed, misinterpreted as a ridge rather than a
live in a small town in the middle of nowhere. My essay is going to be
Where I lived it was quite peaceful. No violence, no loud noises, and no woman screaming at her baby daddy for not paying child support. My house was yellow with a burnt red roof with black doors and beautiful flowers surrounding the front and the right side of the house. I would always walk across the street to Mrs. Mary’s house to go play with all the dogs she took care of. My neighbors were the best. Although they were elderly, they were the nicest people I have ever come across. I used to think that maybe old people were much better friends than kids my
Marie’s grandparent’s had an old farm house, which was one of many homes in which she lived, that she remembers most. The house was huge, she learned to walk, climb stairs, and find hiding places in it. The house had a wide wrap around porch with several wide sets of stairs both in front and in back. She remembers sitting on the steps and playing with one of the cats, with which there was a lot of cats living on the farm...
Dead and fearing animals around the house are interrupted by the house’s
Long, wide roads, small houses, steel fences, tall palm trees, a black Toyota parked at a yellow colored house, an abandon house, which looked like it was hunted, the front door was open and you can see from afar that inside there is nothing but darkness. The house was surrounded by trees and it was secluded from all the other houses around it. These were my view as I walked into an unfamiliar building called Thomas Jefferson Middle School. As I opened the blue wooden door and walked in the building, a tremendous chill came over me, which I have never felt before. The building was very cold; I started shivering as I was walking in. It was old and was not well cared for. The colors of the walls were faded and the elevators made the sound of
The rusted red barn is old, and needs a new paint job. The rusted red color is mimicked my the cilo, a long slender tube that mocked the barn from up above. To the right of the silo and the barn, lay the white house I grew up in. It was exactly how I remembered it. The white paint on the smooth siding was chipped and uneven, and a black front door with squeaky hinges was set into old walls.
It was finally fall break. I was visiting my grandma for a few days. Well past dinnertime, I pulled up to the white stately home in northern rural Iowa. I parked my car, unloaded my bag and pillow, and crunched through the leaves to the front porch. The porch was just how I had seen it last; to the right, a small iron table and chairs, along with an old antique brass pole lamp, and on the left, a flowered glider that I have spent many a summer afternoon on, swaying back and forth, just thinking.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
Sitting in the back seat between two towering piles of clothes and snacks we drive up the abandoned streets of Adell. I see vast open fields of corn and dense wooded forest filled with life, along with the occasional, towering grain house. We pull into a dry, dusty, driveway of rock and thriving, overgrown weeds. We come up to an aged log cabin with a massive crab apple tree with its sharp thorns like claws. The ancient weeping willow provides, with is huge sagging arms, shade from the intense rays of the sun. Near the back of the house there is a rotten, wobbly dock slowly rotting in the dark blue, cool water. Near that we store our old rusted canoes, to which the desperate frogs hop for shelter. When I venture out to the water I feel the thick gooey mud squish through my toes and the fish mindlessly try to escape but instead swim into my legs. On the lively river banks I see great blue herring and there attempt to catch a fish for their dinner. They gracefully fly with their beautiful wings arching in the sun to silvery points.
The time was 7:30 on a Monday morning. The smell of gasoline lingered in the air long enough for anyone to notice. Sunlight filtered through the brush. The cry of an animal in the distance startled some doves in the clearing, and they took off in marvellous flight. Metal lay strewn about the grass. A body lay on the ground, eyes closed. A large cut was spread on its leg. A bird flew into the clearing and landed on the body. A throaty cry escaped from its beak, as it drowned out the wail of sirens approaching in the distance.