Life on Oak Street

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From stop sign to stop sign, this is home. The street that I lived on for the first ten years of my life will always be with me. The street in front of my house is where I spent most of my time, either playing various sports and occasionally moving for the passing car, or running through the gutters when a flash flood would hit town. Oak Street was its infamous name. It was home. The street takes many shapes and forms when you are a kid. We used it for everything: riding bikes, playing various sports, coloring on it with chalk, etc. The street was more home than my house was. I don't meant that in a gangster way either. Friends have come and gone, and so have cars, but that street always holds the same familiar feeling. Lots of events have occurred in front of my home on Oak Street. A car crashed right across the street, in my neighbors yard. Entangled in excitement, everyone was out of their house to see the action. Turns out that there was a high speed chase that had been going on for about an hour. Where did it end up? Right on the section of street that holds a special place in my heart. I rode my first bike on this street. I also crashed many times on the dirty asphalt. The curb of the sidewalk in front of my house is where I would jump my bike. This simple thing never seemed to get old. All over the street, I would jump and ride my bike. Many a time I would come into the house with the water works turned on full blast to show mom a road rash the size of a baseball. The street was never very friendly, but I still loved it. No one could take me away from the street. After being bandaged up, I would head out to my "home" for some more playing. The street always seemed to be happy that I was back for some more fun. ... ... middle of paper ... ...was an object that was always visible. The red fire hydrant seemed to be guarding its section of sidewalk, as no car would dare threaten it. Along with the curb painted to match, the hydrant was a symbol of authority. Street lights were also a big part of Oak Street. On every light post, a neighborhood watch sign was secured. These old, dented signs were targets of various games played on the street. The ones not dented and abused by us were vandalized by earlier inhabitants of Oak Street. Every kid who graced their presence on this street left a piece of them with it when they left. As I have, they have also taken a piece of it with them. Oak Street was a childhood symbol of what we knew as the world. The 1/8th mile stretch will be always remembered for its good times and its bad times. A chunk of asphalt sitting on the desert landscape meant freedom to me.

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