My family moved out to Tucson, Arizona, when I was 6 years old. My little sister was just born and we packed up the small U-Haul with the contents of our humble abode in Reno, Nevada (the biggest little city in the world and the birthplace of yours truly) and we drove over the desert lands to get to Arizona.

Before the move, my Dad (who had come out earlier to secure a home) called. I remember even to this day talking to him over the telephone. "I got a house," he said, "a real house." I'm sure my mouth dropped open. That sounded so official. "And you know what else? They have something called cactus here and we have them in our backyard. And you know what else...?" My already big eyes, widened. Could there be more? It was more excitement than my little 6 year old body could handle. "There are colored lights out back. They light up and color the cactus."
Ask me now and I'd call that tacky. But back then, at that moment, with my father telling me stories of our new magical backyard, my imagination wandered in anticipation.

The day of our move, I still can hear the crunch of the gravel as the truck turned onto our very own driveway of our very first house. I jumped out of the car. Dad opened the door and we had entered our new home.

Many of the details after that are a blur to me. The only thing that I remember really really well now, looking back, is the lime green shag carpet, covering the entire living room. That's all that sticks out. That and loads of memories from our time on that street. That was 27 years ago, when my parents first made Tucson their home.