From 1979 to 1992, I lived in a big, beautiful home in the city of Orange. This was during a time when there was actually more than one good part of Orange. I adored this house; not necessarily because of its size, but that house held something special for me. It sat on a cul-de-sac with 10 other homes. The street was peaceful and everyone knew each other to the point of developing sincere friendships with one another. You never had to feel threatened on that street. Everyone just naturally watched out for one another. My elementary school was less than a 3 minute drive, as was my high school, which was great because that meant that a lot of my friends I made in school lived very close by. I loved the summer when I lived there. When I wasn't spending my days at the beach, I was home in my own pool with my friends, or we would go to one of their pools. We would play Chinese Jumprope, Double Dutch, Hopscotch or run through the sprinklers on the front lawn. We had a storage shed at the side of our house that looked more like a mini home than it did a shed. We created the best ever club-house in that shed. The days never ended before 8pm. There were several slumber parties that took place at my home during those years. I'm not going to fabricate and say they were the most fun I ever had. I had a knack for having weird friends and most of them would end up hiding in my closet at some point during the party, crying that they needed to go home. That is, until I gave them something else to really cry about. Funny how some things never change. But things would get better and we would be up all night doing whatever came into our heads- including midnight dips in the pool or experimenting with the Ouija Board. But no matter the time of day, week or year, I always had plenty of friends to be with. I even made friends with all the adults on my street and most on the other streets. Adults always seemed to have this uncanny way of finding me cute and fun to be with, despite everyone else's opinions of me. I guess that's why I was always fond of them more than I ever was of kids my age. Between the ages of 6 and 11, I developed a friendship with this woman that lived directly across the street from me. Her name was Jackie and she was much older than I was. She had to be in her 50's. The friendship started in a way that I always remembered as being special. When we first moved into our home in 1979, she had a reputation for being bitter and very unfriendly. She didn't like kids. Hell, she didn't like adults for that matter. It's not that she was ever mean to anyone, but you just knew to leave her be. I don't know what possessed me, but one day I decided to go knock on her door. This is when I was 6. She answered it with this funny look on her face. I invited myself in and she actually welcomed me into her home. I continued to spend my afternoons with her until I was about 11. She became very ill and her family thought it best that I didn't see her. They said I should just remember her in the way I had always known her. She died of cancer shortly thereafter. A part of me went with her. I had so much fun with her. Some days we'd go to lunch or shopping and other days we would talk about everything from when she was a child to ghosts to who knows what else. Some days we would spend baking and some days I would spend time tending to her numerous fruit and vegetable gardens. I never knew how anyone could see her in a bad light. She was not at all like what everyone said she was. She was strong and didn't take shit from anyone. I happen to find that very admirable. I found it admirable then, too. She will always be one of my fondest memories of that home. I have a lot of memories there and the surprising thing is, there are more good than bad. Funny how some things do change. During this time, I had all of my family right there with me. They didn't live there, but they lived close by and not out of state like some do now. Everyone always got along and no problem was ever so big that we just wanted to give up on one another. Our home was always full on the weekends when everyone would come over and spend all day long with us. We'd always hold barbecues in our backyard and we'd all swim and play games and whatever else we could do. The holidays were the best. The house was always full then too- of people, food, decorations, and genuine happiness. My mother was around then as well. It was almost like we always had a never ending celebration going on in that home. That's what a family is supposed to feel like. My mom moved in with us every once and again for periods of time. When she first moved in, we didn't get along very well. One night she stood up to me and threatened to hit me. I stood right back up and made it known to her that I am no longer at the age when she could beat me. I informed her that she could never again hurt me like that. Something must have clicked in her head, because from that night on, everything changed for the better. Instead of staying awake at night and glaring at one another or threatening one another, we would talk and laugh and watch TV and play cards until 4 in the morning. To me, that was a special kind if fun. As bad as things could get in that house, they always got better without fail. Always. There was just always something so warm and inviting about that place. I wish I could explain to you all the wonderful things that happened there, but none of us have that kind of time. We had to move out in 1992. That was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I has literally heartbroken. There was just too much to leave behind. Too many good times, too many memories. I don't know how this sounds and I honestly don't care, but that house was more to me than just a house. Beyond the foundation, beyond the walls and doors and windows, there was something special about that house. I had dreams of some day owning that house once again so I could raise a family of my own there so they too could experience true happiness. Not only that, but I believe something else important was left there. I don't care to go into detail, but I feel it deep in my heart. I think that what was left behind is what keeps me drawn to that house. I dream about that house almost every night. Not about it really, but when I dream, the dreams take place in that house every time. I feel there has to be a reason for this and I know deep down what it is. Sometimes when I am out, I drive by to see my house. I love looking at the door that leads into those wonderful memories and at the windows that were the windows into and out of my dreams. I love looking at the grass I would would lay in and stare up at the stars on those summer nights and at the trees I would climb that always made me feel I was on top of the world. I love looking at the walls that always look more to me as a treasure box rather than just a house. I love looking at that house and dreaming that it'll once again be mine. Last night I drove by. It was gone. Whoever lives there now, tore it down and completely rebuilt it. The bedrooms are no longer where they used to be and neither is the front door. The house has been extended out to over half the front yeard and all the trees are gone. The windows have been replaced. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that is even remotely the same. It's all new, it's all gone. My memories are gone, my home is gone, my dreams are gone and that one important thing I left behind may be gone, too. I am not going to apologize for this sounding childish or over the top or for it not making sense. Everything I have ever known is gone. It can never be brought back. Driving there to see that home as it was, as I had always known it, was like a time travel for me. I could go sit in front of that house and be back in a time when everything was right with the world and everyone loved one another. A time when everyone was so young and so far away from being gone. When that house came down, it took my world with it.
