I was never cut out for Wisteria Lane, but it hasn't kept me from living there for most of my adult life.
I grew up on a city block of cooking smells and family arguments streaming from open windows and kick-the-can and hopscotch on the street. When my parents moved us out to the country it was like someone turned the sound off.
I missed the neighborhood library, theater, bakery, soda fountain and all the places I could buy penny candy. I had loved the possibility of being in the middle of things and found peace and quiet highly overrated.
Yet somehow the tradeoffs of career and child-rearing placed me in the suburbs for the next 25 years -- a condo in North San Antonio, homes in West and then Northwest Houston, a brand new faux colonial on a resort island in Georgia. Beautiful houses on streets of certain sameness where "neighborhood" is defined only by a map.
Other than the street signs, there is nothing familiar about the neighborhood where I grew up. The last 25 years have been hard on this city and my childhood streets don't wear it well.
But for now, my little section of this old house is in the shadow of downtown Buffalo on a street lined with blooming crabapple trees. Families and young professionals move easily among the shopping cart ladies and punks. The sidewalks are never empty. My front porch parade is much better than cable.
The original plan last night was to head to a cineplex and have dinner at a chain restaurant with my friend and colleague Lisa.
But I ended up working past the movie showtime, at our Music Hall up the street from my apartment. Rather than being miffed, Lisa suggested we park our cars at my place and walk a few blocks to a strip of wonderful resturants and shops.
We started with a glass of wine on the porch and set off with no particular destination in mind. Walking and talking was easy and the decision to stop at a tapas bar, front window raised to the bustling street, was an easy one.
The food was wonderful, the conversation better. The walk home ended too quickly.
This is what I've missed.



Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs