Grandma's House
My most distinct childhood memories are at my Grandma Darlene's house, a quaint trailer on the edge of Anderson. Grandma lives near the end of a tiny little dirt road and has lived there for more than thirty years. We can barely get through the door because there are mountains and mountains of boxes, clothes and barrels filled with who knows what. At the bottom of all that there is a fairly large wooden rocking bench, my great uncle made right before his wife died. Cushioning these layers upon layers of junk is a nasty, old, mated scrap of carpet. The carpet is a burnt orange, calico color that has been stepped on and had people's shoes wiped off on more times than a welcome mat. Bordering the side of the porch is a barbecue from what looks like it is from the 1950's. It's all charred and where the black paint once was now is a thick coating of orange rust. In the corners there are millions of spiders that have taken up residence.
Once we conquered the spiders and climb over the massive piles of boxes, we open the spring loaded door and the smell of coffee and burning wood rushes over us. As we entered the living room we traveled back in time, to an old yet still messy Victorian house. In front of the door the floor is tile; four or five of the tiles are broken where my Papa dropped a hammer years ago. As we move deeper into the living room the floor changes to a gray carpet with yellow and brown stains in many different places. The big windows are draped with large lacey curtains and doilies surround the coffee table and all the sides' tables. We bounce down on a blue floral couch and set our stuff on the oak wood coffee table that is less than ten inches from our shins. Beneath this table there are golden po...
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...ig would scream over and over again until the lid was shut. Then in would come Grandma with her hands on her hips looking at us like we were so silly. In the end we would always get a cookie.
My Grandma Darlene's house is the simplest, homiest, and most wonderful place I could ever imagine. Her place might not seem like much but it's the little things that are most important. Her house contains so many of my fondest memorize. When I'm busy, angry or just frustrated, I wish and think back on the times when Ashley and I would dump the whole box of lucky charms all over the floor and only the marshmallows. It the simple things I miss like watching Scooby-Doo in my PJ's on Sunday morning, making sparkly crafts and play baseball. All of these fun thing where done at my grandma's and I'm sure there will be a lot more to do when I go over there this Thanksgiving.
My mind started to wonder though each room of the house, the kitchen where mom used to spend every waking hour in. The music room where dad maintained the instrument so carefully like one day people would come and play them, but that day never came, the house was always painfully empty. The house never quite lived to be the house my parents wanted, dust bunnies always danced across the floor, shelves were always slightly crooked even when you fixed them. My parents were from high class families that always had some party to host. Their children were disappointments, for we
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...
For many years I would pass by the house and long to stop and look at it. One day I realized that the house was just that, a house. While it served as a physical reminder of my childhood, the actual memories and experiences I had growing up there were what mattered, and they would stay with me forever.
memories are of making cookies with my grandma in that very kitchen. We get our
Similarly, the furniture in the house is as sullen as the house itself. What little furniture is in the house is beaten-up; this is a symbol of the dark setting. The oak bed is the most important p...
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
In a flea market, a shoe box filled with photographs. This is all we have. Whose lives might be recovered, if only the box had been labelled? I found it laying in a corner of the street, near an old manor where we live, my brother and me. There were men and women neatly tucked in pressed suits and fine linen dresses. They are our family, I imagine. Nameless faces attentively listening to our stories, witnessing the cold lifeless concrete of a flea market; it’s parched landscape that otherwise looks beautiful in the orange twilight. We have more money than it can last us a lifetime, but it cannot buy us our family back. I stare enraptured as strangers scurry down their separate ways, unknown to the solace they and the nameless faces in the photographs provide me, but my brother, he hates them. A single conversation with him, and one would say he hates the face of humanity itself. “Never trust anyone,” he constantly warns. “They leave you when you need them the most.” Our parents leaving us had scarred him deeply. He does not like coming here, but I know that there is a small part of him, albeit hidden away, that craves for company. On this particular day, the sun bathes me in sunlight from behind my brother’s head making me squint up at his silhouette. My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash of porcelain china doll falling of our stand, its pieces damaged beyond repair. Dozens of dolls lay on our stand that my brother bought from a rather expensive antique store, in a futile attempt to blend in with the rest of the commoners.
Everyone has a special place that people will never forget. Sometimes it is because there were places that people experienced great joy or comfort. A special place represents peoples’ special memories either good or bad. Memory will following people whole life, and store people’s heart deeper. Good memory will coming all time. My special place and my memory is my grandparent’s house; my grandparent’s house practically is my second home. I would never forget that special place because of things going on my grandparent’s house, which is symbolized by my grandparent’s love.
Each year millions of dollars are spent on therapy because people want to re-live their childhood. These people discover late in life that childhood was the time period where the most meaningful parts of life were. Things from our past don't just fade away, they are part of us, and most people greatly miss them weather they know it or not. My most meaningful place is my parents' house because it is a symbol of reliving my childhood, indulging in good times, and just plain feeling at home.
grandparents’ house. They have cared for me like no one else could and I am very
grandmother’s house because it made me feel safe and warm. There was a smell of
When reminiscing about my childhood a home is hard to recall. It seemed common for others to have a place called home. Moving from house to house was not the problem, but the empty feeling. Home to me was my grandparent’s house. I spent nearly all of my childhood there. My grandparents bought the one story house with two bedrooms in the early seventies. From the spacious bedroom, to the kitchen with endless possibilities and the way I spent my time this house defined my character.
The entire family got together and it was always a last minute thing but no matter what was going on we all decide we would go up to County Park Lake to have family time. There would be my grandma and my Aunts and Uncles and their kids when we pulled up to the parking lot. Under the shade trees the women would be sitting trying to stay cool and the older men of the family stand around a grill they would be sitting up the charcoal pyramid to lite to start grilling the food while the kids where at the tot lot playing the equipment you could hear the laughter of the kids playing . Also the mean talking about which is the best way to grill. The women would be laughing at the guys arguing over which way was bett...
My house is quite large. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, two living rooms, a dining room, a special games room and a big front and back garden. My favourite room is my bedroom. I love it because it is the only room in my house where I can lock myself away from the rest of the world. After a long day, all I want to do is go up to my cosy bedroom and either listen to some mellow music, or lie down, unwind and watch a bit of T.V or maybe even a relaxing film.
When I think back to the days when I was a child, I think about all of my wonderful childhood memories. Often I wish to go back, back to that point in life when everything seemed simpler. Sometimes I think about it too much, knowing I cannot return. Yet there is still one place I can count on to take me back to that state of mind, my grandparent’s house and the land I love so much.