|
|
Read other articles by Soulflower in the
Archives
Fleetwood Drive
This time of year always makes me long for my old neighborhood in upstate
New York. It is this time of year, when the leaves turn beautiful shades
of brown, yellow and burnt orange, that the air transitions from
blistering heat, to the comfortable cool of autumn. By now, many of the
homes would even have their Halloween decorations up in preparation for
the trick or treaters soon to come. I can remember many days walking home
from school relishing the familiarity of my neighborhood. We lived in a
melting pot of sorts; complete with nearly every ethnicity represented. My
best friend growing up was a Puerto Rican girl named Nydia. We spent most
of our time down the street with our white friend Robin. I reference her
color now, but back then, she was just blonde-haired, blue-eyed Robin and
we had sleepovers and dreamed dreams and life was good. It seems like it
was just yesterday that I’d beg my neighbor, Mr. Odom to let me help him
cut his grass. I’m sure he thought I was asking to be helpful, but there
was just something about the smell of fresh cut grass that to this day
still intrigues me. His wife, Mrs. Odom, used to make fried green tomatoes
for me and I welcomed the extra attention I received from our extended
kinship. I knew all of my neighbors and they also knew me by name. I
couldn’t get away with much of anything and they were sure to make a full
report to my grandmother if I did get out of line. That’s just the way it
was then. People looked out for you. They were concerned about you and
weren’t afraid to get involved, or extend a hand. All of my neighbors knew
that my grandmother worked late nights and sometimes two jobs to raise my
aunts and myself. Because they knew that, they kept a watchful eye out for
me. I imagine as I was watching the seasons change on my long walks home
from school, the neighbors were watching me grow, watching my seasons
change, as I passed by.
Times have surely changed. I saw on the news the other day where a young
girl was nearly abducted on her way to school. What has the world come to
when our children are not safe to go to and from their own homes anymore?
It is sad to come to the realization that my children may never know the
comfort and peace that I felt in my old neighborhood. Nowadays, people
don’t even speak to you as they are coming and going. The old lady that
lives to the right of me rarely comes outside and I don’t even know her
name. But she called the police on my son for climbing her tree a few
weeks ago. I understand that it is her property, but was it really
necessary to take it to that extreme? She could just as easily have
scolded him and then once I got home from work, stopped in to give me the
details. That’s the way it was in my neighborhood. If I was caught being
mischievous, I got dealt with by whichever neighbor witnessed the deed,
and then once again when my grandmother got home.
But then, things were much different on Fleetwood Drive. Admittedly, it
was a different era. You could go outside and play and not have to worry
about being snatched by a predator. Your neighbors waved to you and asked
you how you were doing as you passed by. Girls played hopscotch and double
dutch to pass the time and boys could climb trees without fear of being
arrested for simply being normal. Neighbors kept a watchful eye out for
anything suspicious and stood outside their homes late into the evening
talking with one another about anything from current events to the latest
additions they’d made to their homes. The seasons have changed now and the
tranquility I once felt as a child exists only in my memory. If I could go
back and recapture the essence of the spirit that rested on our quiet,
peaceful street, I’d package it up and put it in the mailboxes of each and
every one of my neighbors. I’d label it “Love Thy Neighbor”; cause that’s
all that’s really missing these days: Love for your fellow man. Ya Feel
Me?
by Bridgette
Hogan
Ya feel me?
"poetry is my claim to fame, what's yours?
|
EEmail
Bridgette
(soulflower@blacksonville.com) if you would like to respond to this subject. Bridgette is a
contributing writer of Blacksonville.com |
|
 |
.