It Takes a Neighborhood

The neighborhood we lived in until I was seven felt like its own little world. I remember playing well with my brothers, making mud pies, smuggling sugar snap peas from a neighbor’s garden, lying on the ground and trying to decipher the shapes of puffy white clouds. I learned to ride a bike in that neighborhood, as well as ride with no hands. I was quite the showoff, riding up and down the street.

I changed my dress multiple times a day, but I did not care for hairbrushes and face washing. Early one morning I could not find a clean pair of underwear, but I still chose to wear a dress. I remember shifting from one fanny cheek to the other while sitting on our frigid cement front stoop, waiting for my friend to come out and play.

The coolest kid on the block, whose first name was Kirby, came complete with leather jacket and mini-bike, and I pondered whether he was related to the Kirby name on my mom’s vacuum cleaner. I was thrilled when he came to my older brother’s pirate-themed birthday party and oh how I hoped he would notice me.

The woods behind our house was thick with sections of trees and berry bushes and was our place for adventure. We would run straight to the fort with a friend’s older sibling’s Mad magazine or comic book, clueless on what we were reading. There would be dares to try an unknown potentially poisonous berry. The real thrill was keeping an ear out for bears – an unsubstantiated rumor.

We played until dark or until we couldn’t take any more mosquito bites. My habit was scratching until they were oozing, and the remedy was cotton balls soaked in alcohol held on by Band-aids. After the initial urge-to-scream reaction, the bites quickly stopped itching and healed. I haven’t found a better remedy yet – although my son has no interest in trying this method.

These memories conjure up feelings of safety, happiness, high self-esteem, being nurtured, and I’m not talking just from my parents. Neighbors were an integral part. Neighbors looked out for each other. If a family had to rush one of their children to the hospital for an emergency, the siblings went to a neighbor’s house for the night. If a kid was down the road causing some trouble, an adult knew who the culprit was and yelled out, “I’m calling your mother.” No police, just calling the parent.

Is it any more dangerous for children now than it was then? I don’t know. We have more media coverage and awareness. But what I have noticed and have been guilty of is there isn’t a lot of neighborhood support, neighbors knowing neighbors. The neighbors down at the end of my street wouldn’t recognize my kid in a lineup, nor would I know theirs (no pun intended).

For me, this is a call to balance out my time on the back deck with some time on the front stoop (underwear included) and spend time getting to know these kids. From what I’m learning in the mentor program with which I’m involved, lives are easily touched by interactions with adults. I’m in!