From time to time, I like to walk around the old neighborhoods of my town, the ones that were there before the entire town became a suburb.
There are a handful of streets that are still intact. These retro houses are squat one story affairs on half acre lots, hitch trailers and American made-made cars in the driveway, pink flamingos and white statues dotting the front yard, and a tangle of old, peeling silver maples in the back. It’s a marvel these houses haven’t been knocked down to accommodate two-story, four-bedroom colonials. Whenever I walk down one of these streets, I feel like I’m recapturing a small fraction of my early childhood.