My Secret Hideaway - A Descriptive Essay

My Secret Hideaway - A Descriptive Essay

I have a secret hide away, and it has me. For years it has been stationed below assorted age old trees and rusty street lamps on the lonely corner of Yellowstone Ave. and North Pryor Street. Byron Wyoming. You can spot the sky blue house in the summer when it’s set on fire by my grandma’s colorful burning flowers, and up the winding sidewalk you will find what I have enjoyed calling home. A place suited for my very own necessities.

The house has undergone many stressful renovations over the past 21 years; nonetheless, she has upheld many long days and still stands to tell me her story every time I walk in. A good mood, a sour mood, a rainy day, or an awful night, my grandparent’s home never ceases to comfort me in my darkest hour. As much as times change, there are those who come and go, who share the same nest as me. It would be selfish to call this place all mine, for without the love and unity felt within these walls, this house wouldn’t be the home it is today for so many.

On the inside, the walls hold tight the photographs that help tell our story. I smile back at them often in my busy, hectic day to rekindle what matters most to me, family. That family is composed of all who enter that front door for whatsoever reason, and they will not be forgotten here. There is always enough room, always enough to go around, so I come around every chance I get.

The best days are when the smell of my lovely grandma’s cooking calls the nose to the kitchen for a longtime favorite meal. Green pork chili, fresh tortillas, papas and fadeo, smothered in sharp cheddar cheese is a ritual at our home. Friends and family come from far and wide to tame a craving that can’t be satisfied anywhere but at the vanilla cream bar of my grandma’s kitchen. These are the days that leave little room for worries, much room for food, and more room for seconds!

The yard out back is dressed up in nice flowers, swings, chairs, flowing fountains, cherubim, and a perfectly cut lawn by my grandpa. I believe he does a lot of thinking under that straw hat of his riding the lawn mower around, and if I’m a lucky bug, he will stop and remove his hat once in a while and share some good advice with me. “Son” he will say, removing the hat with a smile, “How is my mijo?” What I say from there is poured into a glass that my grandpa can see right through. I believe it’s for the best, there are only a few who wear straw hats and ride lawn mowers as magical as my grandfathers.

They say that everybody has a hide away, a quiet place, or in other words, a home. I know this one simply wouldn’t be what I love it for today without my grandparents. The wisdom of my grandfather runs deep as the oceans. The quiet, humble, solitude and strength of my grandmother’s love and special spirit could hold these walls up if the very jaws of hell itself were to gape open at me. That is why I call my hide away a home, and my home a hideaway, because that is exactly what it is.