Grandma's House My most vivid childhood memories are at my grandmother Darlene's house, a quaint trailer on the outskirts of Anderson. Grandma lives near the end of a dirt road and has lived there for more than thirty years. We can barely get through the door because there are mountains and mountains of boxes and clothes and barrels full of who knows what. At the back of it all is a fairly large wooden rocking bench, built by my great uncle shortly before his wife died. Cushioning these layers on top of layers of junk is an unsightly, bonded old piece of carpet. The carpet is a burnt orange, calico color, has been walked on and had people's shoes rubbed off more times than a welcome mat. Bordering the side of the porch is a barbecue that appears to be from the 1950s. It's all charred and where there used to be black paint there's now a thick layer of orange rust. In the corners there are millions of spiders that have settled. Once we have defeated the spiders and climbed over the huge piles of boxes, we open the spring door and the smell of coffee and burning wood hits us. When we entered the living room we traveled back in time to an old, still cluttered Victorian house. In front of the door the floor is tiled; four or five tiles are broken where my father dropped a hammer years ago. As we move deeper into the living room, the floor turns into a gray carpet with yellow and brown spots in many different places. The large windows are draped with large lace curtains and doilies surround the coffee table and all side tables. We bounce on a blue flowered couch and set our things on the oak coffee table that's less than ten inches from our shins. Under this table there are some gold pieces... in the center of the paper... it would scream again and again until the lid is closed. Then grandma would come in with her hands on her hips and look at us as if we were so stupid. We always got a cookie at the end. My grandmother Darlene's house is the simplest, warmest, most wonderful place I could ever imagine. His house may not look like much, but the little things are the most important. Her home holds so many of my fondest memories. When I'm busy, angry, or just plain frustrated, I long and think back to the times when Ashley and I would throw the entire box of Lucky Charms and just the marshmallows on the floor. It's the simple things I miss, like watching Scooby-Doo in my pajamas on Sunday mornings, doing shiny crafts, and playing baseball. All of these fun things were made by my grandmother and I'm sure there will be so much more to do when I go there this Thanksgiving.