I love my neighborhood.
More specifically, I love the people who inhabit all the surrounding abodes and who can count on each other throughout the day for conversation, a rolling pin, emergency babysitting, eggs, chicken broth, school pick-up and/or drop-off, playdates, contributions to good causes, meals, books, a dvd, outdoor heaters, extra tables and chairs, advice, recipes, the thing that plugs into your car lighter that charges your laptop, news, gossip, laughter, pressure washers, a swim, solicited and unsolicited opinions, tapemeasures, etc. etc.
I believe this is rare.
We've lived many places—Vancouver, B.C., Georgetown, Alexandria, Santa Barbara, San Francisco—but this is the first time we've ever been part of a community. If you offered me, say, a 2-hour massage and a plate of french fries, I couldn't name more than two other people (San Francisco acccepted) from each of those places. I used to hope I wouldn't die while the spousal unit was traveling for work because nobody would know. He'd return from a week on the road, open the door, and be greeted by my lifeless body splayed on the floor. Not so good.
So anyways, I appreciate this place and all these good folks more than I can say, and tonight when we hang out while the kids gorge on obscene amounts of candy, I will remember to be thankful.
Happy 'Weenie, all.
1 comment:
My neighborhood is like that, too, and I am most grateful as well. Happy Halloween.
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