A knock came at my door Friday morning. How odd, I thought. I wonder who it could be.
It was the neighbor lady asking if our vehicle was wrecked before or if it could have happened in the early hours of the day. She and her husband had heard a loud bang and wondered if it could have been someone hitting Sable. We had parked her in front of the house because my husband sprayed for weeds in both driveways on Thursday.
“No,” I told her. “Sable hasn’t been the same since she hit that herd of deer at Christmastime several years ago.”
We both laughed and took a few minutes to wonder what the noise could have been and then we went about our day.
Come to think of it, she never told me her name and I never asked or gave her mine. Shame on me.
There was a time when I knew everyone in my neighborhood for at least a two-block radius. I knew the parents, the kids and even the family pets.
I spent hours at the Schabbing house across the street, playing kickball, tag, hide ‘n’ seek and of course with dolls. They in turn spent many hours in my toy room. (I was a little younger than my siblings so I got to have my own toy room. Don’t hate, just accept.)
We also spent an inordinate amount of time behind the laundromat playing in the milk crates. I can’t explain the appeal they had now, but we spent hours rearranging them and making “rooms” and hideaways.
If we misbehaved, our parents heard it from the “neighborhood watch.” Now people just call the police so they don’t have deal with the parents. Sometimes that might be wise.
It was not uncommon for people to sit out on their front porch after supper and just visit.
Casseroles were delivered to sick or grieving families. Children were swapped for a special evening out or just to give a harried parent a break.