People & Places: Home is where we played, where we learned and where we became friends

There’s a small cookie-cutter neighborhood where I grew up, nestled at the bottom of a hill.

When I was younger, the plants surrounding the neighborhood were small. It was a new development, so everything felt fresh. As I grew, so did the plants. Now the trees are tall, the bushes thick and, as always, the dogs still bark.

I moved there when I was 5 years old. The elementary school was just across the street, so every morning all the neighborhood kids would ride our scooters and bikes to school together. My childhood best friends lived nearby, and after school our adventures would begin.

The hill that towers over the village is called El Cerro de Los Lunas, or Los Lunas Hill. At the top, it’s painted with the year and the initials “LL.” Along with the hidden parks, the hill was our favorite hangout spot. It looks more like a small mountain than a simple hill.

When I was little, my dad told me it was a volcano. I believed him, and every so often I’d imagine living through a real-life Pompeii. During our hikes, we found rabbit bones — probably the remains of coyote hunts. We came across holes in the sand and imagined snakes inside. I never saw one, but the shed snake skins always made me cautious. We also had to watch out for cacti, spiders and any four-legged creatures roaming the desert with us.

We loved venturing off the trail to make our own paths, often choosing the steepest hills covered in loose rocks that tumbled beneath our feet. If we weren’t careful, we’d tumble with them.

The hill was larger than it looked. The path straight up was full of sand, and our feet would sink with each step. The sand was cool from the night air, which felt nice against our skin.

After climbing the first incline, a small part of the hill, we’d already be tired, but never too tired to reach the top and take in the view of the Sandia Mountains. At the right time of day, they turned purple, sometimes orange. Clouds would roll over them like ocean foam, crashing into the desert I call home.

Some might think living in a desert isn’t ideal, but I believe it sparks creativity. We learned to make adventures out of sticks, stones and the rugged landscape others might overlook. As kids, we were lucky to have that.

My friends who once walked those same trails have taken different paths in life.

Joyce moved to Long Island, N.Y., and is studying veterinary medicine at Cornell. She moved to New York during high school, which was very unexpected because most people don’t leave New Mexico. She was always very hardworking. Her family owned a Chinese restaurant, and she would work there in her spare time when she wasn’t studying or hanging out with us. She lived the closest to me — a three-minute walk, to be exact.

My dog, Lobo, didn’t like her at all. Lobo was a small Chihuahua–Shih Tzu mix. Every time Joyce came to my house, my dog would try to scare her away. It’s ironic that Joyce, who in my memory was never particularly good with animals, is now becoming a veterinarian.

Monet is a mother of two and is studying to become a social worker. She was the most spontaneous person on the block — very athletic, a skilled basketball player, and always full of energy. She was outgoing and could make friends with anyone. Monet was the daredevil of our group, constantly challenging authority. We loved her immensely. She kept our circle from ever having a boring day. Her children are beautiful and have the same spark Monet had when she was growing up.

I’ve lost touch with the rest, but maybe one day we’ll reunite and reminisce about our backyard and hill adventures.