The House on Clydesdale Lane :: English Literature Essays

The House on Clydesdale LaneThe small townhouse perpetually had the inviting fragrance of freshly cut flowers in the morning and the delicious perfume of my mothers secret recipes in the early evening. Any integrity who entered was immediately greeted by the fragrances and found themselves staying a little longer than they planned. The delicate light from my grandmothers antique lamp beckoned sleep and the weak striped cushions on the worn quick room couch held some(prenominal) a drowsy head in those days. The inside of the house consisted of live that were small and barely separated so that you always knew what was going on in the next room. From the living room, you could see my mother giggling at one of my fathers corny jokes as they prepared supper together. In the living room, my older buddy was most likely teasing my sis and me and tickling us until we screamed. We play games of go-fish and Chinese checkers as we waited for supper to be ready. We always ate dinner party together in the dining room that barely separated the kitchen from the living room. The dinner table was a small wooden square that had awry(p) legs and shook when one of us laughed. sometimes trivial arguments took place when my chum salmon would hurl mashed potatoes from his spoon at my sister or me. After dinner, my sister and I raced to see who could make it up the stairs first to tack together our pajamas on for bum. My dad read stories to us and often told us stories from when he was a boy. It was a warm house. It was warm even in the cold winter months when the heat was turned stumble at night to fulfill money. My younger sister and I snuggled together in the bed we shared and used our hairbrushes as microphones as we lip-synched the songs on our tiny radio. Sometimes during those nights we played Candyland when we were supposed to be asleepuntil we were caught. The outside of our house looked overmuch like the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. The peeling gree n paint flaked off into the small patch of dirt my mother used as a flower garden. The sidewalk was gray and covered with brown hopscotch patterns from the tree sputter we used as chalk. The front door had an outside door that had a torn and tattered screen that hung down lifelessly.