I wiped my tired blue eyes as I stumbled down the steep wooden steps that creaked under the pressure of my callused summer feet. My matted, curly hair reeked of bonfire from the late night before. My nose was stuffy from sleeping in one of the humid upstairs bedrooms of my grandparent’s farmhouse. The thick, oak door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked when I pushed it open. As I turned left and shuffled into the bright yellow kitchen, I was hit hard with the smell of black coffee and burnt toast. My eyes confirmed it. There, on a brown oval shaped table sat two pieces of black toast covered with a half inch of butter and smothered with creamy peanut butter. I laughed to myself, knowing I better eat that crumbling brick my grandmother calls …show more content…
Half of the table consisted of my grandparent’s “important documents” such as my grandfather’s expired doe license from three years ago and my grandmother’s glossy new magazine with a hearing aid advertisement plastered on the front cover. The lazy susan was jam-packed with more junk mail and other really important items. Some of these included a plastic baggie of Splenda packets used only for grandfather’s daily oatmeal and my grandmother’s favorite: the saltshaker. The saltshaker reminded me of the shake-a-day jar that rested upon the obsolete milk machine on the west wall. When my mother was a child, real cow milk sputtered through the spout. Now, it houses my grandfather’s Bailey’s and my grandmother’s Diet Mountain Dew. Next to the milk machine rests a little metal cart. Atop the cart sits a decade old white microwave. A stale box of Lucky Charms always takes up space on the rickety cart. Every visit, my grandmother forces my kid brother and me to finish up the box. We look at each other with raised eyebrows and talk ourselves out of eating the soggy marshmallows that she calls …show more content…
My grandparent’s little yellow kitchen is my favorite place, not because it is adorable and old-fashioned, but because I have spent quality time with the best kind of people in their kitchen. My extended family has sat around that table and not only have we shared a meal, we have also shared the best stories of our lives. By the time I was ten, I had learned my fair share about farming, family, and faith. It was at this table where my Uncle Mike taught me how big an acre, a quarter, and a section of land are. It was at this table where my Grandpa O’Neill told me how he helped his brothers and sisters make it through the Great Depression. It was at this table where I learned how to pray the rosary from my Grandma O’Neill, something she does every single day. My grandparent’s kitchen is my favorite place because it is a place where I feel nothing but happiness. How can a person surrounded by golden yellow walls and warm, loving people not be
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...
I sipped slowly on a cup of hot chocolate after the sun set, and pondered in my head what my first activity might be when I woke up in the morning. Should I build an impenetrable snow fort inspired by images of Minas Tirith? Or perhaps amass a pile of snowballs to use for the inevitable war that I would start with my sister. Quickly I became distracted by the beautiful, handcrafted wood which formed the dwelling. The rich orange and distressed brown mixed perfectly to create something so easy on the eyes, I had difficulty comprehending how it came to be. The smooth and flawless texture led me to run a hand over to test for splinters. The smell of the wood was intertwining with smells from the fireplace, the kitchen and my cup of hot chocolate. All of these sensations came together to form a feeling of tenderness, akin to a mother’s embrace. I never wanted to return back home. I had discovered a place so perfect, so inviting and peaceful, I vowed to never return to the familiarity of home. This was only the first day with vastly more to look forward
I arrived at my grandma’s house in bewilderment. The smell of flavored pork and freshly made red sauce wafted out of the windows and rose with the sound of laughter. The family was already there: all four of my aunts elbow deep into bowls of chicken, pork, sauces; my cousins and a couple of uncles with rolled up sleeves spreading
I met Dorothy thirteen years ago. Ever since anybody on North Liberty Street can remember, she and my grandmother have been best friends. That being said, I spent most of my childhood sitting in Dorothy’s kitchen eating peanut butter cookies. I was instantly comfortable with Jack and Dorothy, and it wasn’t very long until I made myself feel quite at home when we would visit. Two siblings and several years later, I found it “uncool” to spend time with my grandma and listen to Sunday’s gossip, so the visits became shorter until they were almost non-existent.
The first and only time that my family moved, I was three-years-old. My parents bought a new house about four blocks away from our previous house. However, the new house was still being built, so my family moved in with my maternal grandmother – who lives about thirty minutes away – until the construction was completed a year later. Even though I was really young while we lived with my grandmother, some of my favorite childhood memories come from that year. My grandma’s house is a ten minute walk from the beach; a walk we would make at least once every
My Grandma is one of a kind but, grandma would not be grandma without her house. She is one of a kind and so is that house. Built in 1972 my grandparents were the first ones to live in the house. My Grandma, Grandpa, uncle Tony, uncle Steve, and my mom, Angela, moved in. At this time the neighborhood was booming, it was the new neighborhood everybody wanted to live in. The neighborhood was called Plaza Towers and had a nice new school place in the middle called Plaza Towers, as well. My uncle Phillip was born while my grandma and grandpa lived there. This house watched all my uncles grow up, it watched my mom grow up. It has seen divorce and marriage, it has felt my uncles hit the walls, it has smelt my grandmas cooking, and been through one of the worst
This lady is the most wonderful person I 've ever met. She is old, affectionate, and intelligent. It took me eighteen years to realize how much this extraordinary person influenced my life. She 's the type of person who charms everyone with her stories and experiences. She always time for her family and friends. She is the kind of leader who does everything to keep her family together and in harmony. She is my grandmother.
They arrived at the cottage it sat on a hill in the distance the cottage was painted a radiant yellow. The grass was so rich it bounced back in place after every step they toke. Beautiful marigolds, poppies, and roses surrounded the white picket fence. Inside was the table piled high of food fit for the gods. Frosted pastries oozing with sweet-smelling filling, mouthwatering glistering chicken, and freshly plucked fruits.
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.’
I slowly opened the front door -- the same old creak echoed its way throughout the old house, announcing my arrival just seconds before I called out, "Grandma!" She appeared around the corner with the normal spring in her steps. Her small but round 5'1" frame scurried up to greet me with a big hug and an exclamation of, "Oh, how good to see you." It was her eighty-fifth birthday today, an amazing feat to me, just part of everyday life to her. The familiar mix of Estee Lauder and old lotion wafted in my direction as she pulled away to "admire how much I've grown." I stopped growing eight years ago, but really, it wasn't worth pointing this fact out. The house, too, smelled the same as it's ever smelled, I imagine, even when my father and his brothers grew up here more than forty years ago -- musty smoke and apple pie blended with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies. The former was my grandfather's contribution, whose habit took him away from us nearly five years ago; the latter, of course, comes from the delectable delights from my grandmother's kitchen. Everything was just as it should be.
They say grandparents, are the two most favorite people in the world to children. Grandparents are the main characters of your childhood, they are the ones that leave you with the most beautiful memories of your life. Some grandparent’s teach you a very valuable lesson of life, they teach you respect, hard work, family values, and unlimited love. They show you their love in many ways, they say I love you in words as well as actions. Grandparents are the ones that sometimes get you out of trouble and guide you to the correct path. They show you trust, a trust that cannot never be broken.
As I depart from the kitchen, I walk into the living room. There is a terrifying ugly brown couch with a crocheted throw draped over it. Two more Lazy-Boy chairs sit by it. On the opposite side of the room from me is a stone fireplace with shelves built on either side of it. These shelves are filled with books on every topic one can think of. Subjects range from the Civil War to cooking and mechanics. Above the fireplace rests an old, dependable clock. As it strikes the hour with its dings and dongs, I know I am where I belong. I am home.
The familiar smell of soft cookies and homemade cooking are common thoughts when people think about their grandma's house. Great feasts and family gatherings play a part in everyone's grandmother's home. But when I really think about my grandma's house only one word comes to my mind: fun.
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
It’s hard to imagine all the events that led up to ourselves coming into the world or at least it is hard to some people. When I think about all my ancestors that had to survive all the things I read about in textbooks it’s a miracle we are all here. Trying to learn about all the people in my family’s tree was interesting to know how my ancestors came about, what they did, and how long they lived. I learned mostly about my mother’s side of the family who have lived and flourished in andrews, texas where I am from. I haven’t done anything great yet but I am hoping when my grandchildren have to write about me they have something awesome to write about and will think I did something good with my life.