[304 East Dakota.] There stood a stained glass and pebble studded building. [Small—but big enough for a young girl and single mother.] Broken concrete led to both the front and back doors, wrapping around the side of the house. Welcoming any visitor, at the more commonly used, back door lay a colorful welcome mat and an ancient glass porch light. [Above protruded a maroon colored awning with peeling paint.] Passing through this entrance led to three steps to the inside of the house or a staircase leading down to the damp, uneven concrete dampness of the basement. Most chose the three steps—carpeted with a dungy white carpet. One would think a tornado just passed through. Clothes and toys littered every available inch of space; pots and pans covered the counter tops; the linoleum of the kitchen floor desperately needed mopping; finger prints from dirty little hands painted the white walls. Coming a little closer, plastic, brightly colored letters of the alphabet decorated the fridge along with pictures of a young brown-eyed girl with thick, long brown hair. The place containing enough clutter to think it needed cleaning, but little enough to still be considered comforting.

The two bedroom, one bathroom home perfectly housed the beginning of so many things and so many memories. The long sidewalk in the backyard became my hopscotch board; the gravel driveway, my court; the kitchen, my land of experimentation. But, the happiest time I spend on Dakota Street always involved a Christmas tree and music. Once Thanksgiving hit, the festive house became overly decorated. The light brown cabinets held up a miniature village on their own, the welcome mat turned Christmas-y, the plastic alphabet letters tacked picture Christmas cards to the fridge. One sadly missed tradition that vanished along with my life in the house.

As I wrote this, I realized that what I just thought were all unhappy memories in actuality became outweighed by wonderful memories. Particularly all the times the fumes of delicious meals quickly filled the house with a feel good aroma—whether it was ham, turkey, pie, or cookies. Fragrances of brownies and homemade chocolate chip cookies clung to the walls even after the oven was switched off. The baked chocolate lingered in my nostrils days after the goodies were gobbled up, by me mostly. If I try really hard, I can smell them now.

Inside those four walls are memories that can never be lived up to, but also right outside those four walls the memories will never be forgotten. Sounds of horns and of tires screeching on the open highway reached up to my ears on my front porch swing. My little head rested on my mother’s shoulder, and my hand held hers as we enjoyed the sounds of the automobiles. The soothing sound of the wind and creaks of the swing often put me to sleep. The house holds so many secrets in the crevices and within the walls.

My childhood took place at this residence. I grew up there. I learned all the little things in life that are most important. My imagination developed and grew; my understanding of love and family prospered; my love for reading and academics blossomed at the tender age of four. Many lessons that needed to learned I did in that house. My determination began in that house I call my home. Because of that broken concrete sidewalk and glass and pebble encrusted house at 304 East Dakota Street, I am the woman I am today. Inside the frames is where I became a person, I mastered lessons and was taught how to be a kind and considerate human being. This is the house that built me.