Neighborhood Livin'

I absolutely love living in an "old-fashioned" neighborhood. While I am rather biased being here, my old proverbial stomping grounds, it is nonetheless a dream that Don and I have had ever since we were first married -- being able to live, and ultimately raise our family, in a community like this. Since we've been married, we've lived in an apartment community (a community, yes, but not the same); a neighborhood not unlike where we are now; a rectory/parsonage out in the "country" (beautiful but rather isolated -- difficult for me, especially with a young child at the time); then again on a church campus on a dangerously busy road with really no community to speak of. And now we are here, in a true neighborhood: the houses are tightly packed, but not so much to feel claustrophobic; there are sidewalks inviting you to walk for miles and miles (if you chose to do so); there are corner deli's of the mom-and-pop variety here and there; you could walk to church if you felt called to do so. Some of my old neighbors are still here, but not many; there are a lot of young couples now (both working full time) on our particular street. On snowy winter days, all of the neighbors emerge outdoors, armed with shovels and snowblowers, working on their own sidewalks and driveways before moving on to the next house to help out.

Of course, while there are plenty of "up-sides" to community living, there are also some down-sides that, literally, come with the territory. Years ago, these towns were governed by "Blue Laws," regulations that forbade any work, noise, or carousing on Sunday. Legalism aside, I have to admit I secretly loved those laws -- Sundays were blissfully silent. Now those laws are gone; this past Sunday afternoon our neighbor to the left of us finished building a new staircase to the second floor -- a cacophony of the un-Sunday-noises of pounding and sawing -- and then finished up by mowing his lawn. On Saturday night, the neighbors to the right of us had a party on their deck, claiming my dad as the victim, keeping him awake until 1:30 a.m. (I was astounded at the consumption of beer -- one giant Rubbermaid garbage can filled with empties! Plus 2 kegs ... that was quite a bash!). Our lawn was dotted with cigarette butts the following day.

All in all, it's great. I love the opportunity to be able to raise my children here in this environment, giving them this kind of community upbringing. Our kids -- and Aidan especially -- have never experienced this kind of thing, so he has been enjoying the adventures around here. And there's been one extra added bonus to neighborhood living that Aidan -- to his sheer delight -- discovered for the first time last week: the ice cream truck. It was around 7:30 p.m. and Aidan, freshly bathed and pajama'd, was sitting on my bed while I read him his nightly story. I heard the sound first -- that tinkly music only an ice cream truck can make. I kept watching Aidan, waiting for that moment when his focus would shift from the story to the music, and sure enough -- his eyes widened a bit as he looked up at me with a questioning look, not having any idea what was happening but instinctively knowing he was going to like it. "You hear that?" I asked. "It's the ice cream truck." Well, Santa, move on over ... an ice cream truck?! Of course the story had to be interrupted for several minutes while I explained to him exactly what it is, no detail left out, and of course he wanted to run outside that very minute to get some ice cream. Nooooo, another time, said I (sounding oh, so much like my mother from years ago!).

Over the next few days the truck drove daily past our house ... at terribly inconvenient ice-cream-hours, I noticed (right before dinner, during bedtime, etc.). Then finally the day came -- Aidan's introduction to the purchase of that frozen goodness from a tacky truck. We were walking in the "Hay Fields," a local park of sorts whose official name no one remembers, as it's been called the "Hay Fields" for generations. It's a bit of a climb -- we live on top of a mountain (densely populated, but a mountain nonetheless), and at the highest, rockiest point of the Hay Fields you have a spectacular view of New York City. That was our destination, as Aidan is completely fascinated with "Nick Wert City," as he calls it. Anyway, as we were walking, that tinkly sound crept up behind us but, to Aidan's despair, just kept on driving. Thankfully, as it headed back, it stopped by a playground and about 20 children -- my own included -- ran to get in line. You should have seen his face -- it was Christmas morning in April, eyes huge and dimples gleaming as he ordered his first ever truck-produced ice cream treat: a Spiderman ice cream thing on a stick, for $1.75.

I've said this a couple of times in the past here in my little blog world, but it really is good to be home. We feel safe, we feel loved, and little by little we're regaining some of that joy, even if it's starting with the simple things like being in a neighborhood or chasing after ice cream trucks. Living in those moments -- seeing my beautiful boy's eyes shine over something so mundane as ice cream -- gives me hope that joy is returning to our lives. Life, right now, in this moment, is good.