Thanksgiving at my grandparents' house
Thanksgiving in my grandparents' house was always a delicious, uproarious occasion. When we arrived, the house was filled with the aroma of turkey, mincemeat pies, and home-baked breads wafting from the oven. The shrieks of rowdy children tumbling over one another echoed through the downstairs rooms, and the bellow of a basset hound rang from the back steps. The antique armchairs and sofa were positioned with exquisite care, and the
showed first 75 words of 322 total
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wallpaper, and the beige carpet was beautified by three enormous pink stains. Rainbow-colored streamers hung limply from the ceiling; and paper hats and horns covered the floor, the table and the television set. Several gloves had been left on the armchair, and a knit cap and scarf lay under the coffee table. Half-emptied paper cups, along with plates with remnants of hors d'oeuvres and sandwiches, had been abandoned on bookshelves, end tables, and stereo speakers.