Descriptive Essay Final Copy
Carina Wallace
English 111
Ms. Simmerman
Jan. 22, 2015 My Second Home I wake up to the sound of laughter downstairs, and the smell of fresh hot biscuits in the oven. I sit up drowsily in bed; the sun is shining through the window, making little patterns of light on my sheets. I rise, feeling the coolness of the wood floor against my feet as they touch the ground. I walk to the closet and grab my faded old jeans; I slip them on, buttoning the snap in one fluid movement. I pull open the top drawer, grabbing a soft cotton tank top and slipping it over my head. I grab my bag and a hair-tie from the vanity on my way out the door, tying my waist-length brown hair in a knot as I hurry down the stairs.
My nana stands at the stove, stirring the pot of gravy she is making for breakfast. Behind her stands my papaw, playfully yanking her ponytail every time she turns around. At first glance one would think that they make an odd couple, with my nana being only five feet tall, with fox-red hair and hazel green eyes, in near perfect contrast to my papaw who is a large man, standing nearly six foot four, with eyes the color of the sky and white hair that was once jet black. But as they laugh and play standing there in the kitchen, I know this place would mean nothing if they were any different. I slip on my boots at the door, and run across the field to the old wooden barn, its red has long faded, and the metal door handles are covered with rust. I reach out and grab the rusty handle and pull, hearing the ancient hinges creak and groan as the door opens. Walking into the barn I can smell the fresh hay, and the lingering smell of the old moonshine still that sits in the corner, unattended for years, but left for the antique look. I climb the ladder to the loft, and wade through the piles of hay until I reach the little door that opens onto the roof. I climb out onto the roof and walk to the end of the barn. There I sit down, my leg hanging over the edge of the black
English 111
Ms. Simmerman
Jan. 22, 2015 My Second Home I wake up to the sound of laughter downstairs, and the smell of fresh hot biscuits in the oven. I sit up drowsily in bed; the sun is shining through the window, making little patterns of light on my sheets. I rise, feeling the coolness of the wood floor against my feet as they touch the ground. I walk to the closet and grab my faded old jeans; I slip them on, buttoning the snap in one fluid movement. I pull open the top drawer, grabbing a soft cotton tank top and slipping it over my head. I grab my bag and a hair-tie from the vanity on my way out the door, tying my waist-length brown hair in a knot as I hurry down the stairs.
My nana stands at the stove, stirring the pot of gravy she is making for breakfast. Behind her stands my papaw, playfully yanking her ponytail every time she turns around. At first glance one would think that they make an odd couple, with my nana being only five feet tall, with fox-red hair and hazel green eyes, in near perfect contrast to my papaw who is a large man, standing nearly six foot four, with eyes the color of the sky and white hair that was once jet black. But as they laugh and play standing there in the kitchen, I know this place would mean nothing if they were any different. I slip on my boots at the door, and run across the field to the old wooden barn, its red has long faded, and the metal door handles are covered with rust. I reach out and grab the rusty handle and pull, hearing the ancient hinges creak and groan as the door opens. Walking into the barn I can smell the fresh hay, and the lingering smell of the old moonshine still that sits in the corner, unattended for years, but left for the antique look. I climb the ladder to the loft, and wade through the piles of hay until I reach the little door that opens onto the roof. I climb out onto the roof and walk to the end of the barn. There I sit down, my leg hanging over the edge of the black