Descriptive Essay—Student Example #1

Young Lions, Young Ladies

Adolescents like to have a place they can call their own. In the fifties, teenagers hung out at the malt shop, sipping cherry cokes and rockin' with Elvis. Today, in a small town in Tennessee, they're jam skating to Montell Jordan. I was amazed to find a microcosm of life blooming on a 70 x 160-foot cement slab known as a roller skating rink.
As I entered the building which housed the rink, the warm, nostalgic scent of popcorn hit that part of my brain where dusty, cobwebbed memories live, memories of my own adolescence. I made my way past a group of exuberant teenagers at the snack bar until I reached the skating rink. Skinny, hard benches, made for small butts, lined one wall. I took a seat and scanned the rink. My eyes paused to read a sign; white, block letters on a black background warned, "Skate at Your Own Risk."
Two young men swaggered past me: confident, heads held high, eyes focused on their destination. I leaned over, looking down the long row of benches, curious to find out where they were going. Their confidence lagged a bit as they approached a large group of their peers, including several young ladies. All of them exhibited signs of discomfort as the girls crossed their arms over their nubile bodies and the boys tried hard not to stare.
Abruptly, a silent signal sent the entire assembly to the benches. Pairs of dexterous hands laced up skates as quickly as possible, while other hands aided in conversation that only the listener was allowed to hear. I was struck by the intimacy of this scene. They all knew each other well. They had come together in the freedom of this one place to share and explore without the encumbrance of parents, teachers, or any other meddlesome adult. I sat bolt upright, feeling very much like someone who had accidentally stumbled into a room full of naked people.
Attempting to recover from my embarrassment, I was suddenly startled by a cacophony . . . music, perhaps? It must have been music, because I glanced down to find my foot tapping away to a beat long forgotten. As if on cue, young people from every corner of the room flocked to the rink. The awkwardness their bodies had expressed off the rink had been replaced by a grace not unlike the albatross. They were clumsy in their approach to flight, but, once airborne, they were a soaring sight to behold.
I was mesmerized by the effortlessness of their movements, weaving in and out, endlessly circling. Skates became a blur of color: green, purple, blue, pink, red--speeding by fast and furious. I felt the rush of wind on my face as I caught the musky scent of cologne mixed with sweat. A swirl of communication was taking place, none of it involving speech. The tactile sense had kicked in: punching and shoving of young lions trying to impress their ladies of choice, bodies brushing by each other, and the gentle touch of hand on arm. A statuesque blonde, six inches taller than her partner, slipped. "Catch me, I'm falling on purpose," her body language seemed to say. Eye contact was prevalent. Most skaters continually scanned the rink, found the one they were looking for, and BAM!! eyes quickly darted away. This testing of emotional waters went on for several hours; boys and girls trying on relationships of men and women like kids playing dress up in their parents' clothes.
I remembered the sign, "Skate at Your Own Risk." At the time, I had worried about broken arms and legs, but as I watched the dance unfold on that skating rink, I realized that these young people risk so much more. The pain of rejection, the fear of making fools of themselves, and the devastation they feel when they believe that they have, makes life for these adolescents a risky business. Perhaps that sign should have read, "LIVE at Your Own Risk."

Descriptive Essay—Student Example #2

The Old Fence

The old fence stands weathered and tired. It has been holding cattle in the field ever since the farmer put it up. The cows have occasionally tried to break through, but they have lost their battles; only the small yearlings have been able to squeeze under the fence.
The poles stand rotten and weary; they are lined up in a sporadic order. The spaces between are not always equal and their heights differ greatly. Some have pulled loose from their holes, and they are held up only by the line of barbed wire that clings to their hide. The line of fence looks much like a parade of weary, beaten soldiers who have been defeated in battle and are lining up for their last breath of honor before they are shot and killed.
In several places on the fence the barbed wire has been cut or bent out of shape. But neither the rain and rust nor the cattle's fury has made the wire calm or dangerous. Sharp, erect pins still show their warning of power; many times they have acted as a catalyst between the cows and their angered emotions.
Even though the fence is old and historical, it will not last very long because there is a new owner. He is a man of power and wealth who has big plans, a man too high to care for the cattle or the soil, a man whose only dream is riches.

Descriptive Essay—Student Example #3

Diller's Dilemma

As far as I am concerned, the unpardonable sin is someone dropping by our house before noon on Saturdays.
Since I go to school and work too, Saturday is the only day of the week on which I can be lazy and sleep late. Therefore, I am late getting my housework done. By Saturday, my house is completely in ruins; anyone who is blessed with a six-year-old boy can understand what I am talking about. As an example, it is not uncommon to walk into the living room and find an old ragged sheet or quilt stretched across a couple of chairs—this serves as his tent. This is the exact time some people decide to come by to see us. As the visitors come in, I hurriedly snatch the tent down, but immediately wish that I hadn't for under it are Chewbacca, Hans Solo, Luke Skywalker, C3PO. And R2D2. Trying nonchalantly to push these Star Wars creatures aside with my bare foot, I suddenly stop. My foot has come in contact with some unknown substance—it is oozing up between my toes. I look down and silently blaspheme the makers of Green Slime. As I gently remove my foot from this green wad, some of it continues to cling between my toes. Pretending that it doesn't bother me, I lead our guests into the dining room, hoping it will be more presentable. Much to my dismay, it does not look any better, for there, on the table, are the remains of my daughter's midnight snack. The remains include a black banana peeling that looks like a relic from The Dark Ages; an empty glass with a dried milk ring; two stale blueberry pop-ups; and a pile of orange-red carrot peelings. My daughter is a border-line vegetarian, so the latter does not surprise me.
Having removed the residue from the table and seated our early birds, I am brought to the second reasons why I dislike having company on Saturday mornings. Remembering my in-bred Southern manners, I ask if I can get our guests something to eat or drink—when it hits me like a two-by-four—I have nothing to offer. This is grocery shopping day. I scrounge around the kitchen and find a piece of molder cheese and a box of stale Ritz Crackers. As I humbly set this before my guests, I am wondering if they like grape Kool-Aid. I fix a pitcherfull—all the while limping along and hating the slime that ha "set up," like concrete, between my toes. Finally, I sit down with my friends and try to start a conversation, wondering why they are staring at me.
As their gawking continues, I take a quick inventory. No wonder they are staring at me—I would finish in first place in a Phyllis Diller look-alike contest. A slow red begins creeping up my neck as I realize that I'm still in my gown and housecoat, hair in disarray, no makeup, and green slime between my toes. Yet, I have no alternatives but to sit and endure, because my children are still asleep, and my husband left early to make hospital rounds (or was it to get away from home?). My company doesn't stay long—they have already seen enough. I smile and say, "y'all come back now, hear?"
Since the morning is already ruined, I think I'll finish up the cheese and crackers, drink another glass of Kool-Aid, leave the slime between my toes, and go back to bed

Descriptive Essay—Student Example #4

Lou's Place

It is at least twenty years later and I can still remember my first visit to Lou’s Café. Stopping in to see if anyone could tell us where to locate the turn we had missed, my husband and I received a large dose of culture shock. It seemed as if we had opened the door to the decades: a place where generations came and went, a place where time stood still and passed by at the same time
Miss Lou Dixon owns and runs that restaurant in the middle of the town of Sunbright, Tennessee. Miss Lou has been in business at that location since 1954. Even though the place looks a little squalid, it is not for lack of care; in fact, Lou is proud of how clean she keeps her place. She has often been heard to say, with the strongest East Tennessee accent, “It don’t matter how pore a body is. They can be clean.” She is proud of her “A” rating and prominently displays it.
It is not a fancy restaurant. The hundreds of booted loggers, railroad workers, and oil field roughnecks trekking through have worn the carpet thin. Chunks are missing from the carpet at the favorite tables of the workers. The hardened veneer on some of the tables is missing a notch here and there. The paint on the walls has cracks and there is a perennial smell of hamburgers permeating the air. The casual observer could be forgiven for thinking the place is about to fold financially; instead, what we found that night was a well camouflaged center of social activity and the finest, most accurate, information available.
When entering the door at Lou’s, two things are immediately noticeable: the place is rarely empty and seems to consist of a maze of rooms. The first room, through the door, is the main part of the restaurant. There is another, rarely used, dining room off to the right. It was added during the oil well boom of the seventies. Through the main dining room is yet another room; it guards the door leading into the kitchen. This room contains the most coveted table in the place. The highest tribute Lou can bestow on anyone is to allow them access to seats at this table. This table is the family table; it is reserved for Lou’s, and her daughter Karen’s, immediate family and treasured friends.
When entering the main dining room, whether by design or by custom, there is a definite pecking order involved in the seating arrangements. The first table on the left, presided over by an elderly gentleman with Basset Hound eyes, belongs to the old men of the town. The table sits in front of one of two large windows; the old men can see and are able to comment on the “doins of them young ’uns running the town these days.” It is amusing to discover that the average age of the people under discussion is at least fifty and they took over their businesses from the same old men looking over them now.
On the right side, the other large window is dominated by the “women’s information league.” In other towns they would be known as busybodies or gossips. At Lou’s, they are part of the complicated information gathering process. They bring all the information from the night before and are linked to the rest of the town through the old fashioned rotary telephone hanging outside Lou’s kitchen door. The phone rings constantly: someone wants to call in an order, someone wants to leave a message for a person the caller knows is going to be there sometime during the day, and someone else wants to know where the police and the ambulance were going last night. Along with all the calls coming in for the special of the day are also calls delivering the latest events of the day. The old men on the other side of the room will be giving a running commentary on the family of the latest newsmaker, their history in the community, arrest record if any; the who, what, when, where, and why, of the story, with an accuracy to equal any television or newspaper reporter.
In the evenings, when Lou’s daughter Karen gets in from school, she brings a change of atmosphere. Even though the news branch never stops, it is replaced in importance by the young people, heralding the evening. The old juke box, reigning in the corner, is brought to life and starts blasting tunes that cover at least twenty years of change in musical tastes. The place fills up with the town’s young people. Whether the kids are flirting, giggling, strutting around, being manly for the girls, or hiding in the darkest corner to profess undying love for each other, the restaurant begins its shift as the town’s social center.
All of the activity at Miss Lou’s is conducted in a haze of aromas, guaranteed to make the mouth water. The smell is never the same; it depends entirely on what is cooking at the time. Whether it is roast for tomorrow’s lunch special, a cake someone asked Lou to make, the spices of an apple pie, or the ever present odor of hamburgers, it is a well known fact, it will taste as good as it smells. The best part of being at Lou’s is not her food, however; it is the feeling of being part of her extended family, being part of a tradition, when traditions are hard to come by.
The last time I was in Lou’s, I experienced another trip through time’s door; it was as if nothing had changed, nothing, except the amount of gray in her hair. Some of the old men had passed on; they have since been replaced by two or three of the “young ‘uns” they used to keep their eyes on. The phone still rings constantly, the women still gather their news, and a new bunch of kids take over at night. Everything is the same, everything is different.