My Childhood Home

Note: This was a descriptive essay for my English 101 class.

My house was always a place that contained more than just 3 people.

My parents and myself lived there, but over time we had added so much flavor to this simple cottage that it was a place all its own. From the signature smell of a black lab to the dents where Dad always leaned against the wall, our cottage was shaped by us.

While I’ve since moved to a new house my parents call “la Casa” in lieu of its much larger size, the cottage will always be, to me, my home. 

Looking through my childhood home would reflect the habits and tastes that define my family. Walking in the door, you would quickly see just how we had made this house a home. If you looked one way, you’d see the living areas. There was a square for a living room, which immediately led into a dining room right beside the kitchen.

All of these rooms were perfect squares, as if the house had been a real life game of tetris.

The furniture was plush, brown, and cozy. The kitchen was a paint by number in which all the boxes were cream. Cream fridge, cream cabinets, cream counters, cream appliances, cream windows, and likely some ice cream left out on the counter no doubt. Out the french doors of the dining room, there was the backyard. The backyard was straight out of either a romantic comedy or a science fiction movie, depending on the color of the string lights.

The golden glow of Edison bulbs lit up the whole yard just by themselves. It was like pixie dust had fallen but lost its ability to make one fly. One Christmas, Mom decided that blue string lights were a better replacement.

The romantic atmosphere became like a UFO landing site that could often be seen from the front yard.

The bright luminescent purplish-blue would shine into the dining room at all hours of the night. You truly did not have to move from the front entrance to see all this. 

Growing up, there was always the smells of life and homemade dinners. Walking into the living room, anyone’s nose would first notice the slight hint of canine. Our black labradors added an aroma we always pretended to ignore, especially as they aged. There was the smell of fur and puppy breath, of grass shreds and rubber bones.

As Bella and Barclay grew up, their breath became a little stronger and their fur a little looser. So, often you could smell the desperate attempts of Febreze to make a dent in the dogs’ cloud of scents. Once your nose grew accustomed to dog, as all of ours’ were, you’d begin to notice a far more important set or smells.

Most evenings there was cooking in the kitchen. It was always much the same recipes. There would be the smell of Cajun meatloaf, spaghetti, or minestrone soup- whatever Mom had requested.

Soup always carried the smell of squashes and garlic, spaghetti whispered the smell of basil and tomatoes, and meatloaf blew the smell of cayenne and onions.

Dad always paid the utmost attention to each ingredient, for cooking was truly his only art. However, there were some recipes that teased you with their scent but betrayed you by their flavor. I’ll never forget the pain of smelling beautiful cilantro, pico de gallo, and fresh smelling cheese for four hours only to discover that chicken enchilada in a crockpot tastes like nothing.

As you walked the halls, you could hear everything that ever happened in that tiny home. Laughter from my room could be heard from the living room, the garage door opening could be heard from the kitchen, and conversation outside could be deciphered from the dining room.

This ability to hear everything made us know more than perhaps we wanted to, but my parents and I have always talked about everything. Music would also be on, and that could be heard everywhere to.Mom had a penchant for 70’s music as she reminisced. “Kung Fu Fighting” and “Ring My Bell” were either blasted or simply turned on, depending on the occasion and mood.

Either way, you’d hear every word no matter where you were. Late at night, you’d hear the the air conditioning buzz on and the doors stretch. The kennels would whine as the dogs moved to get comfortable.

The house loved to complain about its age.

The doors would creak anytime you opened them, the floors would groan as you walked, and the walls would whine if you pressed against them too hard. It was easy to blame any odd noise you heard on the house itself, instead of anything truly suspicious.

My home was a reflection of many things that we as a family were. We were tight-knit, much like the living spaces were quite close, and we were incredibly open, much like the view to our house was.

From the house itself to the touches we had added on, there was a flavoring that we added to the cottage that I doubt will ever truly go away.

Even as my address has changed, my childhood home is still a dear place to me. Describing it is akin to describing my family. A family of dog, food, and music lovers who still eavesdrop whenever possible. We’re still in the process of making our new house a home, but it will never truly replace the cottage I grew up in.