When I was growing up, there were people who lived next door and down the street. They were called “neighbors”. (Pronounced NAY-bers.) I talked to the grown-ups and played with the kids. They knew my name, I knew theirs. I stayed with them after school if my parents weren’t home.
After writing a post about Halloween being cancelled, I started looking at every house on my street. How many of these folks did I know?
What kind of wine do they like? Do they take sugar in their coffee? What are their names? I bet you know where I’m going with this, you clever readers.
I don’t know the people who live on my street.
A few wave to me while walking their dogs, others glare at the dandelions on my lawn or point to the peeling paint on my garage but that’s about it.
Forget asking to borrow a ladder. If I locked myself out of the house in the dead of winter with my pajamas on, I’d get a frost-bitten ass before knocking on any of their doors. There is no sense of community. These people are strangers to my children. What has happened in one generation?
My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.