Little Boxes Made of Ticky-Tacky

Growing up, I lived on a cul-de-sac located in what my parents referred to as "the development". It was about as vanilla as it sounds, with 50 colonial-style, split-level homes built in 1970, each sitting on a half acre of land. Despite its mundane, tract housing features, growing up in the "development" did have some advantages. The biggest one was that there was only one way in and out of the grid, keeping traffic down to a minimum; and each house had at least two kids who were all roughly the same age, give or take 5 years. This made for having a lot of built-in friends and places to ride bicycles safely, or hold an impromptu game of kickball. It was a quiet place to live, save for the obese Sicilian lady who lived across the street and would throw open her bedroom window to fight with her husband down below or call her son Anthony in for dinner.

Of course, living alongside 49 other neighbors occasionally had its disadvantages, too. Aside from the fat lady, neighborhood gossip was abound. We knew when so and so's husband committed suicide or when such and such's wife had an affair. Given that it was the swinging 70s, my parents heard of miscellaneous "key" parties, where the men were invited to drop their keys in a fish bowl so at the end of the party, the women would randomly grab a set of keys and take the owner home.

As a family, we weren't without our share of gossipy activity, too, since my older sister had a penchant for inviting boys over for beer and pot parties by day; and by night, someone would almost always catch her climbing out of her window. But I had a solid group of friends so long as, upon their parents' insistence, they stayed outside of my house or I went over to theirs. Staying outside was easy to do, too, since we had lots of room to roam even beyond the grid. Behind my house was an extra five acres of woods that butted up to a reservoir. The woods were a magical place where pine trees created canopies for clubhouses and forts, and hills made for perfect sledding in the winter.

My neighborhood friends and I didn't always get along, and sometimes, someone would inevitably stomp off in a fit, swearing, "I'll never be your friend again!" It was especially hard at times because I lived in-between a large, Italian family whose children were cousins. Oftentimes, I would get insanely jealous when the two girls would go off and play without inviting me along, or I'd hear them in the swimming pool next door when I was outside playing in the sweltering heat. But we had many great memories, too, and played endlessly from the time we got up in the mornings to the time my friend's mom turned on the lawn light signaling her time to come inside.

Today I live over 3,000 miles away from the "development" in a funky Seattle neighborhood. The houses here are 100 years old, and while they have similar bungalow qualities, each one is unique and built to last. I love my neighborhood as it's easy to walk up to rows of shops and coffee houses, but it's far from kid-friendly. My street is noisy with traffic and the occasional crazy person walking up or down, muttering profanity. While we don't have a large lot with an ample place to play outside, we do live close to a playground where the kids can swing and slide and the dog can chase his ball. But the one thing I miss the most is that my children have no "neighborhood" friends. Even though Mr. Na's school is close by, there aren't many children living within a few houses in any direction. Oddly enough, we tend to "live" at the playground nearly every day during the summer months, but I rarely ever see Mr. Na play with the same kid twice. In my opinion, scheduling playdates, takes away the spontaneity I had as a kid, living in kid-grid-ville. If Mr. Na is bored, I don't have the luxury of sending him outside to see who's around to play with. And even if I pack everyone up and walk to the park, there's no guarantee that anyone else his age will be there.

Given the option, though, there's no place I'd rather live. Mr. Na and Lady La live in an area rich in cultural diversity, unlike any other place I've lived. And though they can't step outside and take a stroll through the woods, our city provides panoramic views of mountains, lakes, and the Sound--all within reach by car.

It'll be interesting, someday, to hear their take on growing up in this house, in Seattle. Will they gripe about their "old house" with it's postage-sized lot and surrounding hills that make it almost painful to ride a bike? Or will they recognize that their childhood home has one aspect any newly-built tract home lacks: a soul.