From stop sign to stop sign, this is home. The street on which I lived 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, playing various sports and occasionally moving for the passing car, or running through the drains when a flash flood hit the city. Oak Street was its infamous name. It was home. The road takes many shapes and forms when you are a child. We used it for everything: cycling, playing various sports, coloring it with chalk, etc. The street was more home than my house. I didn't mean this in a gangster sense either. Friends have come and gone, as have cars, but that road still retains the same feeling of familiarity. Many events happened in front of my house on Oak Street. A car crashed right across the street in my neighbors yard. Caught up in the excitement, everyone was out of their homes to see the action. It turned out there had been a high-speed chase that had been going on for about an hour. Where did it go? Right on the stretch of road that holds a special place in my heart. I rode my first bike on this road. I also fell many times on dirty asphalt. The curb in front of my house is where I would jump my bike. This simple thing never seemed to get old. The whole way I was jumping and riding my bike. Many times I would come into the house with the water system on full blast to show Mom a rash the size of a baseball. The road was never very friendly, but I loved it anyway. Nobody could take me off the street. After being blindfolded, I would go to my house to play some more. The street always seemed happy for me to come back for more fun....... middle of paper...... it was an object that was always visible. The red fire hydrant seemed to be guarding his stretch of sidewalk, as no car would dare threaten him. Along with the sidewalk painted to match, the fire hydrant was a symbol of authority. Street lights were also an important part of Oak Street. A neighborhood watch sign was fixed to each street lamp. These old, dented signs were the target of various games played on the street. Those that weren't bruised and battered by us were vandalized by the previous residents of Oak Street. Every child who honored his presence on this street left a piece of himself when he left. Like me, they too took a piece of it away. Oak Street was a childhood symbol of what we knew as the world. The 1/8 mile stretch will always be remembered for its good times and bad. A piece of asphalt resting on the desert landscape meant freedom to me.