I grew up in the town of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. My house was perched on the side of a small hill in a suburban neighborhood where all the streets were named after forms of royalty. Out of all the streets with cool names, such as “King”, “Queen”, “Monarch”, or “Bishop”, my house was located on 38th avenue. Such a horribly boring name. But my house, along with all the houses on 38th avenue, overlooked a nature preserve. The nature preserve was home to a variety of exotic animals, at least to a small child. The deer and rabbits got so close to my house that a deer was once standing on my backyard deck. I remember one instance where my best friend Zach and I were exploring in the wildlife preserve, and stumbled upon a small table with beakers, vials, and a generator. Upon returning home, we were informed that it was a small meth lab, and that we were lucky to have stumbled upon it when no one was there. After that “Breaking Bad” moment, my parents rarely let me explore the wildlife preserve.
The only way that I could explain my house is by saying it was open. The floor plan consisted of as little walls as physically possible and even less doors. Walking in the front door, you were immediately thrown into the open void of the living room, a room where rarely anything was living. The room was as big as my current house, with only a sofa, fireplace, and television. To the left was the stairs leading to the basement, but I will get to that later. To the right was the small pathway to my room, the guest room, and the shared bathroom. Neither of those bedrooms were very interesting, and the bathroom was a bathroom. Further down the massive living room was the kitchen, a place like many other kitchens. It was the place that food was stored, prepared, and served. The room was adorn with a small table and four chairs. Across from the kitchen was my parents bedroom, a place I scarcely traveled. That room, a room where even Gods feared to tread, was the resting place of my parents. It was also the room where the magic box would clean my clothing. Walking straight from the front door would eventually put you out onto the elevated porch. Not much can be said about the porch, other than it was high, made of wood, and had stairs running down to the ground level. See, my house was built into the edge of that hill I mentioned earlier, so walking from ground out front, you would end up about 20 feet in the air by the time you reached the porch.
Now, onto the basement. It was a dark place filled with fear. The basement, though it had the largest television, all my toys, and was very well lit, haunted me until I was almost 8 years old. The carpet, however warm and soft, was hiding bodies, at least to my young mind, and the storage room was definitely the home of every demon, monster, and murderer that was ever conceived. Upon later investigation, it was just a poorly lit room where the furnace and piping were.
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Where I Grew Up