A View of Home
Every color and shade from fire engine red to golden yellow covers the lush hillside of
the mountains surrounding me. A hawk glides across the clear blue sky, letting out a screech as
it passes by. It swoops into the valley, and I watch it until it disappears from view. From where
I stand at the top of the mountain, I can see everything down in the valley below--a glassy lake
nestled in the hills, a red farmhouse stuck in the quilt of green and gold fields. I breathe in the
fresh, clean air, smelling the scent of pine needles in the breeze. The North Carolina Mountains
welcome me in every season, but fall is my favorite, when the trees are bursting with fiery
colors and the wind is crisp but not biting. I take a deep breath and smile, feeling completely at
ease. I could stay here forever.
The first time that I can remember going to the mountains, I was about seven years old.
My father took my sister, Jenny, and me on a hike to the top of Moore’s Knob at Hanging Rock
State Park, and that day, I discovered that I loved being in the mountains. There's no feeling
better than being there on the top of the world, with the mountain air brushing my cheeks, the
sun beaming down on me, and the vibrant colors of the forest surrounding me. We spent the
afternoon at the top of the mountain climbing rocks and gazing out at the spectacular view. I
felt so relaxed, like there wasn’t anything I had to worry about.
When we were hiking back down the mountain, my dad led me and Jenny onto a side
trail. Little did I know, a spectacular waterfall awaited me at the end of the trail. My sudden
intake of breath couldn’t be heard over the sound of the water was it plummeted over the
rocky cliff into a pool of sparkling water, spraying me with mist as I climbed, mesmerized, down
to the flat rocks beside the waterfall. I immediately pulled off my shoes and waded into the
crystal pool, ignoring the chill that went up my spine as I stepped into the frigid water. With
sleek, smooth rocks beneath my feet, cool water lapping around my ankles, and the crashing
waterfall drowning out every other sound, I felt like I was like I was in my own, perfect world. I
felt at home.
Ever since that first visit to Hanging Rock, I have often asked my parents to plan a family
trip to the mountains. In the fall, we sometimes join my grandparents at their condo on Sugar
Mountain to spend time with them, go on hikes, and drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Whenever I’m at their condo, I don’t have to think about anything but being where I am—with
the people I love in the place I love. Mountain air has a way of clearing your head of all the
unimportant and insubstantial worries of everyday life.
Sometimes when I’m stuck in a place where it seems like I can’t do anything, I think of
the mountains, and suddenly that’s the only place I want to be. I want to wade in a cold creek,
stand at the top of the mountain, or hike through the dense forest. I want to taste the clean,
fresh air and smell the pine trees. There’s no other feeling like being in the mountains of North
Carolina, because that is where I feel at home.
A Safe Haven of Love
Regardless of where I live, there is always one place I can call home. Going home is
like gliding through endless fields of corn and, inhaling the smell of the manure emanating
for miles. Soon the corn fields turn to lawns, and local businesses. The on the main street
the fire truck red local market buzzes with life, and kids run play in expansive sports fields.
Turning into my home street gets my heart racing. Pulling up to this place makes my heart
skip a beat, and the realization that I am home finally kicks in. Then the garage opens, and
out comes my grandmother’s energetic boxer, Cleo. Then once the door is fully retracted
my grandmother steps out and welcomes us to her home, our home.
Ever since I can remember my family has taken regular trips to my grandmother’s
house. No matter where I have lived that one small ranch house has always been a place
to call home. My early memories were probably back when I was five or six. Back then my
grandmother’s house seemed like a magical wonderland. Every time I would arrive she
would have a toy or Lego set waiting for me. My grandfather was alive up until 2010 and it
was always a pleasure to see him, and hear his intelligent sense of humor and witty
conversations. My grandmother has always been someone who can’t stop cleaning. She
has never hired a cleaning lady and her house is always spotless. I think there is also
something about smell with places you have been visiting for a long time. The smell of my
grandmother's house is like nothing else and it comforts me to breath in the scented
antique air of my home.
Now as a teen going back to my grandmother’s house it is both different and the same.
No longer is the house incased in an aura of magic. Now the magic is more real and the
love contained in that place is irreplaceable. Nowadays my family lives on the east coast
so it is much easier to visit my grandmother. No longer do we have to take grueling three
hour plane rides. Although times have changed our traditions are still alive. We still read
on the back porch under the tall oak tree, and tirelessly chase Cleo around the back yard.
We still visit the local pool and eat fried corn balls. The difference is that now days I
actually have a chance at beating my grandmother in a game of cards and I get to see my
home through slightly more mature eyes.
My home is a beautiful, peaceful place. It is the origin of my childhood and soon to be
the birthplace of my adult hood. I will always remember my home in all its simplicity. I will
always remember the antique smell and the little house encased by a wall of sturdy pines.
No matter what happens the love will always be with me. My grandmother’s home will
also be my home until the day I die.
A Book is My Home
Ever since I was little, I have been able to get lost in the pages of a book. The crisp pages
crinkling when touched, the spine bending as I dove deeper into the book, and the fading ink of
the words on the page promised a relief from everything around me. The words spinning around
in my head connecting to make these seemingly unrealistic tales astounded me, and they still do
today. It didn’t matter what type of book it was. As long as it was something that could capture
my attention and make my head whirl, I was content.
My first experience concerning anything involving letters was when I was playing with
the phonic sets that came in green or purple boxes when I was just learning how to read. I have
to admit, I hated it. I dreaded the moments when my mother or father would sit me down in
front of them and tell me to do the activities, but all of that changed when I was given my first
book. Reading has been a significant part of my life ever since I was little. From The Magic
Tree House as a six year old, to Eragon as an eleven year old, and to books like Outliers as a 13
year old, my interests grew. There is no literal place that I feel at home, for my “home” isn’t
something that remains constant. It is something that changes with my interests, and
continuously takes a new title.
I remember the nights when my parents would come knocking on my bedroom door and
tell me to stop reading, for I was up past one o’clock! But that was in fifth grade, when I had the
luxury of being able to get lost in my favorite books, and the times available for me to sit down
in my room and open up a book are few and far between. I have a stack of eight books just
sitting on my bedside table! For me, reading is a leisure activity – not work, so that means that it
is never the first thing I can do. However, the times that I am able to sit down with one of those
delightfully heavy objects in my hand are the best. It doesn’t matter what type of book it is, for I
can get lost in almost any. From the fictional world Alagaesia of Eragon back in time to the
1920s of The Most Dangerous Game, reading is an escape, and escape I do.
I know that most don’t consider reading to be a “fun” hobby. But the rare chances I do
get to hold a book in my hand are the ones I am lost in a world that isn’t mine. I always
remember to take heart in the quote, “A reader lives a thousand lives before they die. The one
who never reads lives only one.”