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We have a very small street–I think there are about twenty houses on it.  I find it a very interesting street.  The mix of people is terribly fascinating.  Right next door to us there is a older fellow from Germany who lives by himself and works in his yard about six hours a day.  It’s immaculate.  He hand-sprays each weed (but that’s only because there are about two weeds in his entire lawn). He never waves back to me.  Next to him is an older woman who lives by herself. She drives an old brown jalopy boat car from 1975 (that was a guess) and has a yellow house with lime green shutters.  Whenever I wave to her, I feel like she’s trying to figure out where on earth I came from.  Around our circle there are a bunch of retired folk, a family with a high-schooler and then a family with three boys who are now in college or older.  We are the youngest people on the street.

The other day an eight year old boy came over to play with my son.  He lives at the end of the street, around the bend.  The way our street is set up, it’s sort of like it’s own little land on either side of the bend.  So, eight year old boy from around the bend came over.  Since then, he has come over seven more times to ask to play.  I’m a little worried.  I’ve sent him off on his way five of those seven times.  I don’t want to become the street babysitter.

Yesterday, it was gorgeous out.  Our neighbor two doors down came over to sit on our front lawn while we were outside playing, and he just chatted for an hour.  He’s an older gentleman who doesn’t work–he and his wife have a lot of heath problems.  I think he really enjoys that there is a young family on the street.

There you have it.  My street in a nutshell.  More on that later. . .  .