Descriptive Essay On My Grandparents House

As I approach the final turns to my grandparents house, my heart expands and fills with a peaceful warm-hearted magical sense of love. I grasp the handle to the window and lower the glass just enough that I feel the cool autumn breeze gently ruffle through my hair. I can hear the sound of the soft running water flowing down the stream banks of the rolling hills. Tree branches hang low over the shallow waters. The soft breeze sheds leaves of the oak tree falling softly to the surface of the stream, circular ripples flow downstream over the moss covered rocks that lead the way to the old willow tree were childhood traditions of skip rock were carried down from one generation to the next. In the distance, the sunrise glistens off the snow capped peaks that shadowed the country side where my uncle herds his cattle from the freshly grazed field. The smell of the grass, distinctive, and easily recognizable triggers fond memories of my grandparent 's house, which I call home.

As dawn breaks in the dull morning sky, sunbeams cast down over the hill crest of the white pine trees. My grandparents house lays, tucked back along the side of a old dirt road. The mosaic morning colors begin to rise into the horizon, the sun rays peek through the tree tops and shine down, reflecting over the old rough cut lumber where my grandfather made our childhood tree house, sculpted by his bare hands. He branded his marks on each piece of the hand crafter lumber. The foundation of my childhood began here, the beginning of my independence. It was a place were my cousins and I could escape, a piece of freedom away from adults, where we bonded over board games, books, and the imagination of