It takes a village
We were recently at a homecoming party in the neighborhood I grew up in. At the party, we sat on a couch and a young girl ran in, looked around, and said, "has anybody seen my mom?" to which a dear neighbor lady replied jokingly, "I'm right here!" They laughed, but there was truth to her words.
I grew up in Brookside, where I had more moms than just my biological one. The subdivision had been built as a place where newlywed World War II veterans could seek an economical beginning to life. The houses are small and close together, with barely any room at all for cars, and there is a creek that runs by the south side. The streets were unpretentiously named A, B, and C. I lived on A street, which my out-of-Brookside friends thought was funny.
As a child, I was surrounded with elderly folks who told the best stories, and they would sit on their front porch, calling neighbors to gather round and watch the evening primroses bloom. My friend Melissa and I once hopped her backyard fence to find an older couple building a birdhouse to complete their paradisaical little garden. They invited us in for cookies, and after that, we made it a habit to climb the fence to visit "Grandma Rose"-- whom we named thus just because it sounded romantic, not because it was her actual name.
There were other young couples like my parents, starting their own families, with kids my age. Our parents were best friends, and so were we. Doors were open to all, and I can recall epic battles fought with homemade "girl-power" potions and dollar-store swords. We would play make-believe in the creek and walk "upriver," pretending we were the first explorers to come by the banks and bridges. We'd dare each other to hold your breath and dunk under into the frigid spring run-off. After, we'd dry in the sun, laying out on the baseball field. We dreamed of riding the horses by the dirt hills, and I once climbed over to pet one named Dakota, thinking myself an expert horse whisperer and hoping to ride bareback into the sunset (the grownups came over too quick though).
Not until junior high did I feel the shame of living in a small, old, unfinished house. Growing up, my friends and I were all in the same modest income bracket, and so we were brothers and sisters. But I eventually ran into peers whose lifestyle was more extravagant than my own. They lived in nicer neighborhoods, and after seeing their ginormous houses I decided never to invite people to hang at my corny Brookside home. The shame eventually passed, however. After high school and in between college and an LDS mission, I worked at the grocery store just around the corner. I worked there with friends and friends' older brothers who I'd spent my whole life with, and I re-gained appreciation for the small places called home. Serving in the Philippines also taught me that there were even smaller places that others called home, and I came back from my mission very proud to come from humble, happy beginnings.
We joke about our oven being nearly 80 years old and barely working. We lived in houses with no insulation, no central air (instead, a beastly swamp cooler that was a terror to walk past in the middle of the night), and basements that gave us the heeby-jeebies. And that was normal! Today, houses are getting bigger and families are getting smaller. My dream is to one day live in a little house with little children of my own, and neighbors to raise them just as my neighbors raised me. I'm thankful for my Brookside heritage, and I hope to preserve these memories for my future family.
I grew up in Brookside, where I had more moms than just my biological one. The subdivision had been built as a place where newlywed World War II veterans could seek an economical beginning to life. The houses are small and close together, with barely any room at all for cars, and there is a creek that runs by the south side. The streets were unpretentiously named A, B, and C. I lived on A street, which my out-of-Brookside friends thought was funny.
As a child, I was surrounded with elderly folks who told the best stories, and they would sit on their front porch, calling neighbors to gather round and watch the evening primroses bloom. My friend Melissa and I once hopped her backyard fence to find an older couple building a birdhouse to complete their paradisaical little garden. They invited us in for cookies, and after that, we made it a habit to climb the fence to visit "Grandma Rose"-- whom we named thus just because it sounded romantic, not because it was her actual name.
There were other young couples like my parents, starting their own families, with kids my age. Our parents were best friends, and so were we. Doors were open to all, and I can recall epic battles fought with homemade "girl-power" potions and dollar-store swords. We would play make-believe in the creek and walk "upriver," pretending we were the first explorers to come by the banks and bridges. We'd dare each other to hold your breath and dunk under into the frigid spring run-off. After, we'd dry in the sun, laying out on the baseball field. We dreamed of riding the horses by the dirt hills, and I once climbed over to pet one named Dakota, thinking myself an expert horse whisperer and hoping to ride bareback into the sunset (the grownups came over too quick though).
We joke about our oven being nearly 80 years old and barely working. We lived in houses with no insulation, no central air (instead, a beastly swamp cooler that was a terror to walk past in the middle of the night), and basements that gave us the heeby-jeebies. And that was normal! Today, houses are getting bigger and families are getting smaller. My dream is to one day live in a little house with little children of my own, and neighbors to raise them just as my neighbors raised me. I'm thankful for my Brookside heritage, and I hope to preserve these memories for my future family.
Gosh, you're a lovely person. Thanks for writing this, Miranda! ♡
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ReplyDeleteWow! You are such a natural at painting pictures with words. Beautifully done.
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