MARQUETTE – My earliest memories are almost entirely based at the house I grew up at on Michigan Avenue in Gladstone.

I remember so clearly building forts with my brother in the large cedar bush that lined our back yard, laughing and arguing as our 120-pound golden retreiver, Reggie, barked and tugged at our pantlegs.

I can still hear my dad yelling “pedal faster!” when thinking back to the warm spring days he spent running beside me on the sidewalk in front of the house, holding the back of my pink bicycle seat as I learned to ride by myself.

I can still smell the buttered popcorn my mom would put in the special wooden bowls for movie night in front of the old box-style television. We’d lay blankets down on the floor and she’d draw the curtains and turn the lights out, making our own at-home theater in the living room.

A few blocks away was Lake Michigan, where I spent many summer days playing in the water and later patrolling the shores as a lifeguard. In the other direction, on Main Street, was the candy store where my friends and I would ride our bikes, loading up brown paper bags with penny candy we’d purchased with the change we made at our lemonade stand earlier in the day.

As a small child, my mom and brother would hurry me out the door each morning so I’d make it James T. Jones Elementary School on time. I’d almost always have to run the last block. Being late is a habit I’ve yet to kick.

As a teenager, I shared my first kiss with my soon-to-be husband in the dimly lit street, cautious of who might be peering out the front window. Just a few days later, I remember crying to him over the phone after I accidentally backed my mom’s Grand Prix into the side of the house.

On Friday nights in the fall, you could hear the subtle sound of cheering and the beating of drums by the high school band radiating through the streets from the football field.

Families clad in red, white and blue would wave their American flags and light off firecrackers in the street as they passed by on their way to the 4th of July parade a few blocks down.

One year my mom counted more than 400 trick-or-treaters at our house on Halloween. A faded photograph of me dressed as a bumblebee and my brother as Dracula taken in the front yard still hangs in my bedroom.

It may just be brick and mortar, but that charming two-story house played a significant role in shaping the person I am today. It’s the cornerstone of nearly every fond memory I have, and its warmth comforted me during the times I needed it most.

I’m sure everyone has similar feelings associated with their “home,” whether they still have access to it or not. It seems no matter how old you get or how much distance comes between you and that special place, the memories don’t disappear. They’ll always be part of who you are.

Lately, I’ve had several dreams about that house. Maybe it’s a longing for simpler times as I go through some major life changes or maybe it’s a signal that good things are yet to come.

This week, after nearly four years living together in three cities and four small apartments, my fiance and I were handed the keys to our first house here in Marquette.

It’s strikingly similar to the house I called home as a child – a two-story built in 1930, with wooden trim, lead windows and small quirks, like a built-in ironing board in the kitchen and skeleton keys to open the closet doors.

While signing the closing documents, the previous owner smiled and shared with us her own story of building a life in the house, to which she brought her daughter home at just 8 weeks old.

While I expect homeownership to be a bumpy ride, I am beyond excited to make this new place our own.

I hope some day in the future my children will be able to reminisce about this house the way I do about the first place I called home.

Kelsie Thompson can be reached at 906-228-2500, ext. 206.