There is one place where I have always felt completely safe, my house on Targee Street. My childhood was spent living in Boise, Idaho. As I grew up, Boise seemed massive. The nonstop traffic, the beautiful lights, and the various different places to see; you would never be bored. On that lonely dead-end street, where imaginations ran wild, laid my house. My house might not have been amazing, but to me it was home, and it was great. That house gave me comfort and security when I needed it most.
It was a small, cozy house. It was eggshell white with almost turquoise stripes, and a long driveway that led to a garage of the same colors, which was always too full to actually use. The family room pretty much took up the whole right side of our house, so we put a wall up to make an extra bedroom in the back. For the seven years I lived there, a lot of people moved in and out of our house, so having that extra bedroom was extremely helpful.
The kitchen was so small that everyone could barely fit in there together all at once. The walls were white, but my mom got into one of her creative moods and put texture on the wall with a feather duster. It actually turned out really well. I was a little curious to what it would look like because I had never heard of that being done before. It just gave the kitchen a different feel; more put together.
The kitchen was my favorite room of that house. It is where all the girls would gather to talk, to cook, and to laugh; just to be together. I always wanted to be in the midst of things when I was a kid; I was a curious little tot. I loved being with all the grown-ups and just listening to them talk and laugh. I was shown what true friendship was at a young age. My mom was the type of person to befriend anyone. She got along well with everyone and I believe I am the same way, something I acquired from her.
The kitchen also had a door that led to the master bathroom which, obviously, led to the master bedroom. I loved that room; whenever I got scared I would run into my mom’s room and crawl in bed with her. She was always there for me. My bedroom was just a few feet from my mom’s, separated by a hall and a bathroom. I remember a specific time when I was about eight or nine and I decided to take a bath. I walked to the tub, turned the faucet, and allowed the water to flow. Some family friends showed up so we were all outside on the porch talking. Suddenly, I remembered about starting the water so I sprinted into the house and to the bathroom. I stepped into the bathroom and immediately my foot was drenched with water. The water had flooded over the side of the tub and was covering the floor. I quickly shut the water off and unplugged the drain. I was so nervous my mom was going to be upset with me, but she didn’t get mad; she just helped clean it up. I was so close to my mom and I absolutely loved it. My bedroom had two doors and two closets, and was always a mess. Too bad I wasn’t a teenager living there; two closets would have been heaven.
Now, about imaginations running wild; they did. First off, I thought my house was haunted. I know what you might be saying, ghosts aren’t real, and maybe to you they aren’t, but I sincerely believed in them and still do. I always had these crazy, scary dreams about ghosts in the house, and they always felt real. One time I was standing at the foot of my bed talking to my brother and his friend when I felt something grab my ankle. I was so freaked out I took off running and screaming. Still to this day I have no clue what it was; all I know is at nine years old I was absolutely terrified. I was way too freaked out to sleep in my room that night.
Imaginations also ran wild out in our neighborhood. My best friend lived on the street behind me and we were always coming up with crazy stories. The one story I remember the most vividly is about this house on the road connecting our two roads. All the kids made up crazy stories about the guy that lived there. The ones that scared everyone were that he only had one eye and that he was a killer. His backyard had a shed and everyone said he killed people and hung them up and then buried them in his backyard. Well one day, my friend and I got the guts to go knock on his door. At the last second, I backed out and stayed as far away as possible from that house. She tip-toed to the door and knocked on it. Right before the door opened I looked away, so when she came running over I still didn’t know if the stories were true. I guess I never will because she didn’t talk about it.
Children just are so creative and imaginative. I was definitely as creative and imaginative as the next kid. Now that I am older, I know the story of the man that lived in that small, lonesome house was just the children in the neighborhood doing what children do best; being imaginative.