Memories from Grandma's House
My Grandma’s House
Some of the best memories of my life are from my Grandma’s house. When I was a kid my most favorite place to visit was always my Grandma’s house. This was the place I would go before and after school. I always loved going to her house because it made me feel safe since I knew I would not be alone. In the winter I was warm because she always had a crackling fire on those cold and rainy days. It seemed like there was always the smell of freshly brewed coffee. As a matter of fact, it seemed like my Grandma was always making coffee. Grandpa always had a hot steamy cup of coffee in his hands and it was the first thing Grandma offered company when they came to visit. I can even remember the collection of coffee cups that were so meticulously lined up on the first two shelves of the cabinets. There were cups with every state name on them, red cups, white cups, cups with Elvis and Christmas cups. Nowadays if I smell coffee, I fondly think of my Grandma’s house. The house was a small, white cottage-style with black trimming and a beautiful flower garden that led up to the front door. I can still smell the aroma of freshly cut flowers that would occupy the crystal clear glass vase on the dining room table. There were draping, well-established grape vines that covered the wooden arbor as you pulled into the driveway. It was the house my Grandma had lived in for most of her life and you could almost see the memories that encumbered the atmosphere. When I entered her house it was usually through the back door where I would have to navigate my way through the very flimsy, squeaky screen door that lead VanCleave 2 into a somewhat minuscule enclosed back porch. I can still remember the feel of the old metal handle that was loosely attached to the door. There was always a neatly stacked pile of wood on the back porch. The gray paint on the floor was scratched and chipped away from all the years of abuse absorbed by the constant
Some of the best memories of my life are from my Grandma’s house. When I was a kid my most favorite place to visit was always my Grandma’s house. This was the place I would go before and after school. I always loved going to her house because it made me feel safe since I knew I would not be alone. In the winter I was warm because she always had a crackling fire on those cold and rainy days. It seemed like there was always the smell of freshly brewed coffee. As a matter of fact, it seemed like my Grandma was always making coffee. Grandpa always had a hot steamy cup of coffee in his hands and it was the first thing Grandma offered company when they came to visit. I can even remember the collection of coffee cups that were so meticulously lined up on the first two shelves of the cabinets. There were cups with every state name on them, red cups, white cups, cups with Elvis and Christmas cups. Nowadays if I smell coffee, I fondly think of my Grandma’s house. The house was a small, white cottage-style with black trimming and a beautiful flower garden that led up to the front door. I can still smell the aroma of freshly cut flowers that would occupy the crystal clear glass vase on the dining room table. There were draping, well-established grape vines that covered the wooden arbor as you pulled into the driveway. It was the house my Grandma had lived in for most of her life and you could almost see the memories that encumbered the atmosphere. When I entered her house it was usually through the back door where I would have to navigate my way through the very flimsy, squeaky screen door that lead VanCleave 2 into a somewhat minuscule enclosed back porch. I can still remember the feel of the old metal handle that was loosely attached to the door. There was always a neatly stacked pile of wood on the back porch. The gray paint on the floor was scratched and chipped away from all the years of abuse absorbed by the constant