My Neighborhood

I recently moved into a wonderful neighborhood, a neighborhood where the neighbors have lived on the same street for ten, twenty, or even thirty years. On this street, it seems like everyone knows everyone else. I went for a walk the other evening, and ran into a young couple with their young son in a stroller, a couple I met shortly after I moved in and have seen several times since. (Actually, I borrowed an orange-picking tool from them.) My neighbors across the street, Terry and Barry, have four teenage children and have lived in the same house for thirty years. They have neighborhood potlucks on their front lawn. Barry is my" go-to" neighbor when I lock myself out of my house or need someone to help me pick up 25 folding chairs in his pickup truck.

This neighborhood reminds me of the neighborhood of my childhood. The neighborhood of my childhood was a place where it was rare for houses to change hands. My childhhood neighborhood was one where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else's children. If Mr. Roger's neighborhood were to become a "real" neighborhood, it is my childhood neighborhood that I envision.

And yet, according to the neighborhood newspaper, we have crime even in this most neighborly of neighborhoods. Homes are being robbed in the afternoons, when they think no one is home, when both parents are working and the kids are in school. Robbers have heard of our wonderful friendly neighborhood and let themselves in the back doors in the afternoons, back doors left unlocked by trusting homeowners.

I guess its not really Mr. Roger's neighborhood after all.