Moving

Choosing where to move is an inexact science at best.  One can look at all sorts of empirical data, such as tax rates, school quality rankings and other such minutiae to determine what neighborhood suits his or her family.  Until one resides in the neighborhood, however, the true nature of the community isn't revealed.

Recently, my fiancée and I moved down the road to a more traditional suburban neighborhood.  Sidewalks, street lights, families with children and pets -- it has all the stereotypical elements any movie or book would contain.  Our house is smaller than the former house and almost fits our needs, were it not for the precipitously steep stairwells and the smaller dimensions that required us to divest ourselves (mostly me) of possessions. 

Our first indication that something was different about this neighborhood was that while we were moving in -- a process that took several days over the course of a couple of months -- not one of our new neighbors saw fit to approach us and introduce themselves.  It's entirely possible that people were put off my my appearance -- generally sweaty with a heavy dose of grunting as I lifted overweight boxes of books out of trucks and cars and into the house -- but that doesn't explain their reticence toward Karen.  One woman -- in fact, the woman whose house is directly across the street from ours -- spent so much time working on her lawn and landscaping that I thought she would appreciate the opportunity to take a break...but it wasn't to be.  Even though our move is largely over, we still have not met this woman.

Of course, since we moved in right at the beginning of summer, we thought it might be that so many people were busy with plans and such that meeting new neighbors ranked relatively low on their list of priorities.  In fact, we have met the neighbors on either side of our house, as well as the fireman two doors down whose daughter rescued one of our errant Generals who escaped the backyard one night.  But the opposite side of the street may as well be a foreign country to us.

Were that all there were, it would merely be an oddity of the neighborhood.  But there are some other eerie characteristics that we've noticed that make us wonder whether we've moved to a middle-class Stepford.  For example, an inordinate number of homes in the neighborhood have cars parked in the driveways and not in the garages.  Why?  Because the garages are being used as de facto storage units.  To be fair, so is ours, but we're still moving in.  Other homes with garages chock-full with household items house families that have lived there for months, at least, if not years.

The next thing is that when it's garbage day, the neighborhood looks like it sprouted identical garbage cans and placed them in very similar locations at the curb in front of their houses overnight.  I've never seen a neighborhood with uniform garbage cans.  It's as if the mob came in and told everyone who would be hauling away their garbage and which cans would be used in that job.

But the most startling trait of the neighborhood is that after nine o'clock at night, no matter what day of the week, the street is a quiet as a graveyard.  Seriously.  The street lamps shine brightly, the wind rustles the tree leaves, but otherwise, there isn't a sound to be heard.  It's as if the neighborhood has shut down for the evening.  What makes this even more unique is that there are plenty of families with teenaged children in the neighborhood, which would make one think that there would be a modicum of noise at all hours of the day, or at least until eleven o'clock on the weekends.  No chance.  This place shuts down at nine o'clock, weekday or weekend.

Other than that, it's a pretty nice place to live.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles