• Decription of an old Woman's home:

    I knocked softly at the top of the rusty coated door in front of me. The thick smell of apple trees and rose bushes flowing into my nose like a river.

    A crackle of the golden door knob sent me startling mentally. I regained balanace, and slowly forced my eyes to feast upon the woman's petite, warming home.

    The first thing I noticed was the decorative walls. The milk brown paint had chipped with age. But of course, the old woman had covered the shame with framed paintings of fruit bowls or chicken farms.

    This was just the beginning though, I had yet to discover the rest of her tidy home when I placed a foot on the buttery yellow carpet.

    The old woman ushered me inside, apparently eager to show me the actual overall apperance of her home. I was utterly stunned with a homey feeling as I examined every inch of her home.

    In the right corner, there was a puffy white, yet not entirely white, recliner. It had a small indentation in it indicating that the woman had been sitting in it not to long ago.

    And next to the recliner was a sturdy, dusty wooden bookcase. I recongnized some of te titles, such as "Little women" and "Wuthering heights". The books had yet to be taken care of, since they were caked with mittens of grey dust.

    The home had an old fashoined, black and white tv set. Which was turned randomly to the cooking channel. I watched as the woman on the screen chopped lettuce and diced tomatos with ease. Her voice, southern enough, blurted the lighted room.

    Next I saw, was the dining table. It was polished light oak, that was completed with country side chairs on decrative legs. I was stunned to have found a clear blue glass bowl in the very middle of the table. Inside of it, plump and juicy apples were bunched together, fresh from the apple tree just outside of me. Their shiny red interior seemed to lick the bowl with clearness, somewhat screaming, "untangle us!".

    For a finishing touch, I new the old woman cleaned her house spotless, and by the look on her face, I knew she expected me to notice.

    On the floor, was newly knitted rugs. They contained some soft mixtures of my baby blankets and some of my mother's old patchwork. The old woman had somehow combined them to make a concrete-tough rug that plastered to her butter toast carpet as if it had been sewed into the ground.

    The air of apples, peaches, roses, and yellow lillies around me seemed to close in, My senses somehow disturbed with familarity. I reached one slender arm out to touch the fine feel of a scarlet apple. Then I hoisted the juicy thing right into my mouth, tasting the crisp, elegant, crunch.

    "Grandma," I said, "what a welcoming house."