Descriptive Essay
Wesley Miller
9/1/13
Mr. Reynolds
Descriptive Essay
As a young boy my parents and I moved around often, never stopping in one place for more than a few months at a time. It was quite annoying that in every place I moved to I never got to unpack my boxes; I figured there was no point when I would be uprooted again soon. At the age of fourteen we moved to a large city named San Bernardino in California. As we arrived in the city I wasn't surprised in the least seemed like any other place I had already lived. As we drove down a highly industrialized street named Pacific Road, I noticed on my right hand side many shopping centers ranging from an assortment of: food stores, clothing stores, barber shops, and lots of other shops. Upon my left hand side, were endless rows of apartments. A lot of them were over three stories high; I couldn't believe how many were lined up never endlessly. There was graffitti on almost every building and garbage down the lining of ever curb. As my dad began to slow down, he says, "this is it." We pull into a narrow road and see some large brown condos on my left hand side was a gigantic blue and green apartment complex. The other side had a apartment with a numerous amount of vacant signs for each place. On the building nearly every window was broken out and it looked as though it was a haunted house. We go all the way down the narrow road and we finally arrive at a small house. It was a light brown color with a big broken window in the front and graffitti everywhere. That was the first impression of my new house. My dad looks over at me and says, "it's a fixer." That was a sure thing. As we entered the inside of our home I noticed how much nicer it is than the outside. It had all new carpeting and was very clean. The living room area was the first thing you see when you enter the house, rectangle in shape about fifty feet wide and forty long. On the left side of the living room there was a large window, right
9/1/13
Mr. Reynolds
Descriptive Essay
As a young boy my parents and I moved around often, never stopping in one place for more than a few months at a time. It was quite annoying that in every place I moved to I never got to unpack my boxes; I figured there was no point when I would be uprooted again soon. At the age of fourteen we moved to a large city named San Bernardino in California. As we arrived in the city I wasn't surprised in the least seemed like any other place I had already lived. As we drove down a highly industrialized street named Pacific Road, I noticed on my right hand side many shopping centers ranging from an assortment of: food stores, clothing stores, barber shops, and lots of other shops. Upon my left hand side, were endless rows of apartments. A lot of them were over three stories high; I couldn't believe how many were lined up never endlessly. There was graffitti on almost every building and garbage down the lining of ever curb. As my dad began to slow down, he says, "this is it." We pull into a narrow road and see some large brown condos on my left hand side was a gigantic blue and green apartment complex. The other side had a apartment with a numerous amount of vacant signs for each place. On the building nearly every window was broken out and it looked as though it was a haunted house. We go all the way down the narrow road and we finally arrive at a small house. It was a light brown color with a big broken window in the front and graffitti everywhere. That was the first impression of my new house. My dad looks over at me and says, "it's a fixer." That was a sure thing. As we entered the inside of our home I noticed how much nicer it is than the outside. It had all new carpeting and was very clean. The living room area was the first thing you see when you enter the house, rectangle in shape about fifty feet wide and forty long. On the left side of the living room there was a large window, right