Question by Airlynn: Any adcvice to make my essay better?
It is supposed to be really discriptive. Due today.
In a suburb of Dallas where I used to live is a street called Cherry. Throughout most of my childhood Cherry Street was the place I lived and breathed. I remember everything about that street, the smells, the sounds, the tales of all the harebrained neighbors and the rumors about the oddly quiet ones.
The first thing that anyone would notice when driving down Cherry Street is the colors. The houses like rainbows blended perfectly together down the pavement and came in an array of colors. There were school bus yellows, soft spring lavenders, and peaches with crimson hearts painted on the shutters. Our house was more subtle, a clean white trimmed in baby blue.
Though it didn’t stand out like some of the other houses our house had the most trees and that is the main thing I remember about living on Cherry Street. Every house was covered from front to back with dozens of trees. There were tall skinny trees with long thin arm like branches that stretched the length of the yards. There were short stumpy trees with leafs that grew in random clusters scattered all over the tops and sprouted long skinny seeds every spring. My favorite was the big tree that sat in the center of our front yard. It was the biggest tree on the street. The trunk was thick it humped and grooved so that there were spots just big enough for our feet when we climbed up into it. Then about halfway up dozens of thick limbs exploded in different directions. The limbs grew tall and wild soaring and diving in all directions, twisting through the limbs of the surrounding trees. My siblings and I would all claim a spot in the tree naming it after whatever animal the shape of the odd branches seemed to take.
We also used to roller skate. On Cherry Street the sidewalk is a nearly flawless smooth and glittered heaven. Even if you’d managed to trip over the one imperfection in the pavement –a jagged square of sidewalk that was just a little higher then the rest- you’d never scrape your knees of the palms of your hands. The side walk was soft and glassy falling down was like more like falling into pillows, so we’d just race as fast as we could without a worry.
One thing we did have to worry about was the wacky neighbors. Right next to our house a woman lived with her husband and young granddaughter. Their house was perfection all year round. They lived in the only brick house on the street and their front doors where white with golden tinted windows that cast a glow when the sun hit them just right. When the wind blew you could smell the summer musk of freshly mowed grass which was always a luminous green even in the dead of winter. When it was springtime we’d sneak tastes of the sweet honeysuckle that grew along the fence line until they cut them down. In between their front door and another door that was also in the front but hardly used was a garden that was raised off the ground and surrounded by the same brick as their house. The flowers were even more colorful than the houses and sung as the sun rolled through the branches of the trees and into their petals. Every time they racked the leaves in their yard they would throw them over the fence and into our yard, my parents didn’t like it but my siblings and I were happy because it just gave us a bigger pile to jump into every fall.
A little further down was the single vacant house on the street. It was white, just white and loomed over the surrounding houses. There was no mailbox and the numbers on the house were gone. Everything about the house left you with an empty feeling. There was no for sale sign in the yard and no trace of the owners, it was simply abandoned. The windows with their broken and twisted blinds were big glaring eyes that sent trimmers up our spines when passing it. The grass was overgrown and the bushes were wild and twisted together. Once we sunk in the back yard and took turns sticking our heads into the old doggy door at the grimy kitchen and ran for our lives when we swore we saw a ghost staring back at us.
There is no place like Cherry Street. Whether my sibling and I were stealing the neighbor’s cat or their mail or if we were jumping from the tops of the tallest trees we dared to climb in, I will never forget living on Cherry Street.
Answer by Jason S
It’s a good start, but you need to actually describe things. It’s a long essay, so I’ll just talk about the first paragraph. In the sentence starting “I remember everything about that street…” you should describe the smells and the sounds. Say something like, “In just thinking about it, I can smell that freshly cut grass and hear the neighborhood kids playing tag. I hear Mr. Robinson yelling at the kids, telling them to get off his lawn.” Stuff like that, that’s the stuff that people remember about the street they grew up on. Add details.
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