Home
It is a typical Saturday morning. The sunlight shines brightly through my window, reflecting a piece of light onto my adorable white quilt. The piece of light danced around and morphed into different shapes which decorate my white quilt. It is this quilt which opens its arms to protect me from the cold every night. The sizzling sound of sausages accompanied by the clinking of glasses from the kitchen plays a lovely melody into my ears, telling me mum is cooking breakfast.
Getting up like the speed of light, I sprint into the bathroom. Walking towards our dining room；my energy supply station where my body is filled up and energized with mum's excellent cooking. Daffodils on the table smiles and bows as if they are saying 'Good Morning".Hearing the rumble sound of the lawn mower, I know dad is using his dark green weeding machine, a very noisy contraption which I am sure wakes our neighbour! After breakfast, mum continues her daily routine which starts with cleaning up the kitchen and giving commands to other members in the family. She ordered me to clean and tidy my room immed...
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
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...
In “Calling Home”, by Jean Brandt and “An American Childhood” by Annie Dillard, both girls are confronted with their sense of conscience and of right and wrong. In the process, both girls experience memorable lessons as a consequence of the decisions they make. In “Calling Home”, thirteen year old Jean realizes that her actions not only affect her but more importantly, her loved ones, when she is caught shoplifting and arrested during a Christmas shopping trip with her siblings and grandmother. In “An American Childhood”, seven year old Annie realizes that adults and their feelings are valid and that they can be just as vulnerable and full of tenacity as a child after she and her friend find themselves being chased by a man who is none too amused at being a target of their snowball throwing antics. In both stories, Annie and Jean are smug in their sense of power and control. Both girls exhibit a general lack of respect for authority by justifying their actions and displaying a false sense of entitlement to pursue and attain whatever they wish, as if ordinary rules do not apply to them.
January 2003: I lie contentedly in my bed, covers pulled up to my nose. I glance down to see the faded, but still brilliant quilt stretched across my bed. Used. Used many times. My Grandma has been gone for three years now but I still carry her with me. I remember the time she told me to never take one single breath for granted and realized that more times than not, I don’t, which is a step in the right direction. I vow that I will live by the guidelines of my Gram and breath in and out everyday, with purpose. The quilt has served its purpose. It has protected me at night and decorated any room that it was in. The quilt may not cover me now looking brand new, but it covers me with a story of its own. I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep, quilted by Gram.
In a matter of fact, home is a noun that is defined in the -Collins
Inside the nicely decorated room with taupe walls just the perfect hint of beige, lie colorful accessories with incredible stories waiting to be told. A spotless, uninteresting window hangs at the end of the room. Like a silent watchman observing all the mysterious characteristics of the area. The sheer white curtains cascade silently in the dim lethargic room. In the presence of this commotion, a sleepy, dormant, charming room sits waiting to be discovered. Just beyond the slightly pollen and dust laden screens, the sun struggles to peak around the edges of the darkness to cast a bright, enthusiastic beam of light into the world that lies beyond the spotless double panes of glass. Daylight casts a dazzling light on the various trees and flowers in the woods. The leaves of fall, showcasing colors of orange, red, and mustard radiate from the gold inviting sunshine on a cool fall day. A wonderful world comes to life outside the porthole. Colossal colors littered with, abundant number of birds preparing themselves for the long awaited venture south, and an old toad in search of the perfect log to fall asleep in for the winter.
A home, many people spent their whole life in search of his or her home. It has many different definitions to different people. To some people it may be their home country, to some it may be where they were born, to some it may be where their family is. home's most basic trait is its ability to provide shelter from weather. Rain or snow, a house will always be there to shield the elements from the family. In the cold times of the year, the heater will be there to warm the house. The heat of the summer is no problem for a good home. The ideal dwelling definitely must have a dependable central air conditioner. When located in an area abundant with tornadoes and hurricanes, a home must have a safe place. A storm shelter or a basement is an excellent place to hide. But to most people home has more meaning than just dwelling it should be a place where their family is, where they could have family times together.
I can still remember the day I knew I wanted to move to Arizona. I was in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, working a new store opening for Longhorn Steakhouse. It was a Saturday night and we were getting slammed in the kitchen. My job was to train and coach the new cooks through the shift. I was sweating like I was running a marathon in the summer heat of Arizona. After the big push of guests came through the kitchen, and the new cooks could handle the line, the trainers and I headed to the back line to get a start on the prep for Sunday. I overheard my Training Coordinator talking to some of the other trainers about Arizona.
This morning I wake early from the light that creeps underneath my blinds and my bed next to the window. I wake floating on the streams of light, heated, like white wax spilled across the floor, dripping, soft. In bare feet I walk down the stairs, cold on the wood, and find my father in the kitchen, also awake early. Together, we leave the house, the house that my parents built with windows like walls, windows that show the water on either side of the island. We close the door quietly so as not to wake the sleepers. We walk down the pine-needle path, through the arch of trees, the steep wooden steps to the dock nestled in the sea-weed covered rocks. We sit silently on the bench, watch as the fog evaporates from the clear water. The trees and water are a painting in muted colors, silver and grays and greenish blue, hazy white above the trees.
What is home? If one looks in a dictionary the answer would come out to be, “The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” However, for anyone who has had an actual home, they would know that such a term goes much beyond its concrete description. It is an impassioned aspect filled with values and foundation of nurturing. A home is not just an abode built to live in; in fact, that is just a definition of a house. Home is a place where one not only feels comfortable, but a place they look forward to opportunely live in every day. A home is built not by bricks or wood, but with the bond of family. A home is a place that reminds a person of countless memories and values when he walks through a corridor of the house, or looks at one of his belongings. On the other hand, a person can move from one house to the next. However, their home remains the same. No matter where they go, people will reminiscence about the one place or a group of people with whom they felt truly content.
Away from the immense sea, white foams from the waves gather gently onto the golden shore. Now, half of a glowing, radiant light looms across the water 's horizon. The sea turns blood-red and darkness creeps up like a thief. The necklace that once reflected its passionate energy of fury moments ago now resembled a mere costume jewellery. Perhaps the loss of the necklace’s elegance and sophistication was the reason to why it was disregarded. Pity the owner did not see the necklace radiating its splendour at its peak. Anyhow, the nightfall creates a sensation of joy and tranquillity in me. Every sight and sound stimulates a sense of composure and serenity; and the effect is heightened by the absence of the noisy bustle of our daily work, only to be exposed to the never-ending music of the waves, and to breathe the fresh air instead of the stale atmosphere of classrooms. It is not easy to describe the effect of this sight; it can only be strangely deciphered in my mind. It is however, a very tangible and distinct emotion, though its allure really depends upon the reality of the world from a further point of view, away from the definite predictabilities of the world, all in which an instant becomes like a translucent drape which almost consents me to catch a glimpse of a ideal and more breath-taking reality. The worldly desires, expectations, worries, schemes, suddenly cease to exist. It is as though all of
The shrill cries of my alarm echo across vermilion painted walls, stirring my consciousness into an aware state. It is precisely eight o’clock on a warm summer Monday; the distant cries of mockingbirds can be heard above the soft whirring of cars passing our genteel residential street. My ears scan the house; it is quiet – barely a sound other than the tinkling of tags as our pets navigate the living room. The still morning air brought realization, with no children running around Mother must have already left for work. Never leaving my lax position I stretch and sigh, it is nice to not have to baby-sit my sister’s kids – my nieces and nephew – but I do miss the mornings where my mother would still kiss me goodbye.
I brush my eyes awake, feeling the cold seeping in from my window. It’s 9 AM and it’s winter in Minnesota. Feeling sleepy, I stand up and go outside. I love the winter air. It always refreshes my mind and there’s just a cold bite to it that I enjoy. Coming back inside, I boot up my computer, hoping to enjoy it a little before heading out. The winter days swim together, phasing throughout my mind, and I fall asleep again, or I have woken up.
A belief that people share, regardless of their cultural or ethnic background, is "Home Sweet Home". This saying implies that our home town, province, or village is usually the sweetest place, since it is bonded with the most beautiful and unforgettable memories of our childhood. This belief is most meaningful to people who have to live in exile or have do a lot of traveling. People usually have the same comment when asked about their feeling towards their hometown, "There is no place like home." As for me, I will always have a very strong and special emotion whenever I think about my home village, where I was born and spent my entire childhood. That is the feeling that it suits me and binds me closely to my village, and though it is out of sight, it is never out of mind.
It was a beautiful sunny morning; you could hear the birds singing in the background. I just woke up after a long sleep. It was now 11am and everyone was awake whizzing all around the house and I wondered what all the havoc was about. I came across my mum and asked, “What was going on”. I got no reply. It was like my mum didn’t even see me if I was invisible. After that I could not be bothered to ask because it looked like another busy Sunday morning.