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COLUMBIASTATE ENGL 1010 - Descriptive Essay 1

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There is a pothole-covered road in West Virginia that leads to a street sign that reads “Konchar Lane.” Konchar Lane is lined thickly with trees that seem to sway in a fluid motion begging for your attention. I am united with my heritage at the first sight of the sign, for Koncharis my full-blooded Serbian great-grandfather’s last name. Here begins the long entry to the sacredground my family lovingly calls “Konchar Land.” Elegantly and with distinct purpose rests the home that my great-grandfather built with his own two hands. He purchased numerous acres of land with the intent of his children and future generations having a permanent gathering place. Decorating the side of the home facing Konchar Lane are large windows allowing my grandmother to wave to the coming and going family, just as my great-grandmother used to do. Walking up the six smooth concrete steps nearing the front door, I still hear my great-grandmother pleading, “slow down, watch your step,” a common phrase from my childhood. Looking out across the enormous yard’s rolling hills, I close my eyes and envision our yearly Konchar Reunions. I reminisce on the four sets of cornhole boards set exactly twenty-seven paces across from one another, with three humongous Konchar generations competing fiercely against each other. I visualize my Uncle Will, with his dark tan skin allowing him to look the most Serbian out of us, meticulously roasting the lamb on a spit per the Serbian traditionthat his father taught him. To the left of this land is a section of trees, one standing apart from the rest with visibly thick, deep-set roots, under which my baby sister lies. Leah’s tree is a place that I frequent when I visit Konchar Land, allowing me to talk and feel as close to her as I can physically. I vividly recall each family member that has passed over the years. The distinct memories I share with them make their way to the forefront of my mind as I breathe in the fresh country air.I am met with a minimum of a dozen family members boisterously professing their excitement of my return to Konchar Land as I leave the outer beauty entering the home. The robust fragrance of coffee mixed with decadent desserts lingers consistently in the air, as my family insists that dessert and coffee are necessary while visiting. The hallway is framed with family photos tediously hung on each wall down the hall’s length that shows a timeline of my mother and grandmothers’ generation. To the right is my great-grandmothers’ bedroom, which still smells sweetly of her Red Door perfume. Her clothes still hang neatly in her closet, and her sturdy wooden dresser remains decorated with family pictures and heirlooms. At the end of the hall is the back room with an old, floral printed pull-out couch. In this room is where umpteen boxes of old family photos live. My favorites are the stunning photographs of my great-great-grandmother bravely boarding the S. S. Berengaria in the 1930s to visit her family on the very first official American excursion to Yugoslavia.Each carpeted step leading to the basement creaks to warn you of its age, imploring you to tread gently. The basement is where my great-grandfather had his workshop before he died in the late 1980s. The smell of sawdust coats the cold air still. Pegboards used to hold his tools cover the top half of the walls. He hand traced the outlines of his tools on the pegboards as a system of organization, and there they remain. After caringly saying hello to my favorite parts ofthis treasured home, I take my seat in the kitchen’s circular wooden bench and table. Hand-carved by my great-grandfather and stained by my great-grandmother upwards of sixty years ago, this spot has given many generations of Konchar family and friends a comfortable place to gather. Here at this solidly built table in the center of the home surrounded by my family, with their booming voices and ear-splitting laughter is where I feel most connected to myself and my Serbian roots. Konchar Land is


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