The Old Neighborhood
The doorbell rang. The coffee was ready. I bought cream and cookies, which we usually do not keep in the house. My friend, Lissa, drove nine hours from Iowa to attend a celebration of life for another grade school friend from our old neighborhood who recently passed away. Our time would be short, maybe ninety minutes, as we both had other engagements.
I opened the door, and in walked Lissa, who I first met at a neighborhood nursery school. It was in the basement of one of my mother's friends. It was a forward-thinking idea for the 1950s and much appreciated by young mothers.
I asked her about her drive, which can be tedious when driving alone. The years melted away as we recounted our road trip stories when we traveled alone across the country. Immediately, we discovered our mutual love of adventure.
We settled into the living room, where the sun streamed through the windows. I love the room's open feel without blinds; the sun casts a warm glow in summer and winter. I served the coffee and treats.
We quickly started to discuss our memories of growing up in the old neighborhood. Time moved slowly then, we agreed. Our biggest challenge was mastering double jump roping and winning the long jacks playoffs played on our cement carports. One of our only rules was that we were expected home before dark.
I thought about roaming the streets from sunrise to sunset, mostly on our bikes. During the summer, we hurried home for dinner. After dinner, we played kickball on the street where I lived, a cul-de-sac. I remembered chasing the good-humor man with our sweaty quarters in hand. I lamented my failure to make much money at my lemonade stand but thought I did better selling Girl Scout cookies.
We reminisced about deliveries from milkmen, oil trucks, and fuller brush representatives. The furnaces kept us warm in winter, and none of us had air conditioning. The electric fans kept us cool in our houses, which looked the same and were built shortly after World War II.
We discussed how each home in our neighborhood looked like the other, with perfectly manicured lawns. Neighborhood dads were always busy with their latest entrepreneurial ventures. We giggled over the memory of party lines—how you could hear your neighbor's conversations if you picked up the phone at the right time. We recited our old seven-digit telephone numbers to each other.
These memories came to life for us. We entered a time capsule that no longer exists but still lives in our hearts, just like the fireflies we diligently captured on warm summer nights. I remembered my parents looking forward to their summer block parties. They gathered on the street, blasted folk music from our stereo, and ate lobster ordered from Maine once a year. Their sense of community defined my childhood.
As our 90 minutes together ended, we sat silently for a minute, each reflecting on our childhood. I was also reminded of the importance of passing these stories on and sharing the legacy of our lives with those who come after us. The old neighborhood may have changed, and the people we once knew may be gone, but the stories remain.
When Lissa stood to leave, we hugged, both aware we might not have many more chances like this. As I watched her walk down the front step, I was filled with deep gratitude—not just for the memories we shared but for the reminder that our stories matter.
The memories we'd revisited weren't just stories of a bygone era; they were the threads that woven the fabric of our lives. Each memory, no matter how small, was a piece of our legacy, something to be cherished and passed on.
We often consider legacy grand, reserved for the famous or the extraordinary. Our legacies are built from the everyday moments, simple joys, and shared experiences that define us. The stories of our childhoods, our neighborhoods, and our families shape us and are worth telling.
When we take a moment and look back, we find meaning in old connections, a sense of community, and our own evolution. We owe it to ourselves and to those who come after us to take the time to tell our stories.
Please take a moment to write them down, share them with loved ones, and preserve them for future generations. Don't keep them to yourself, whether it's a story about the old neighborhood, a childhood adventure, or a lesson learned. Share, write, and let your legacy live on.