My House My mother moved a lot when she was growing up on account of Grandpa being in the army. She hated having to adjust to new schools and make new friends. That's why I thought she was joking when she put forward the idea of moving. But she was completely serious. "For just the two of us," my mother said, "an apartment in the city will suit our needs much better." Personally, I think she's lost her mind. I guess I can understand why she would want to move, but what about me and what this house means to me? I suppose if you looked at my house, you might think it was just another country house. But to me it is anything but standard. I moved into this house with my parents ten years ago. I can still remember that first day like it was yesterday. The first thing I noticed was the big front yard. To me it seemed like an ocean of grass--I couldn't wait to dive in. The backyard was full of gnarled (, ) and scary trees that talk on windy nights. But I grew to like them and the shadows they cast in my room. My father and I even built a small tree house, where I often go to remember all the wonderful times we had before Father's death. This house is special--maybe only to me--but special nevertheless. It's the little seemingly insignificant things that make this house so special to me: the ice-cold tile floors that make me tremble on midnight snack runs; the smell of my father's pipe that still exists; the towering bookcases of my mother; the view outside my bedroom window. This house holds too many memories, memories which would be lost if we gave it up. Why did the author's mother decide to move?
Because she hated the countryside. Because Grandpa was on constant move. Because Dad's death made her lose her mind. Because she thought a city flat more fit for them.