I strolled through an old neighborhood at sunset like a stranger. My old neighborhood. I used to live here.
I weaved through the streets on foot, walking my dog, exploring old places, greeting invisible old haints. The ratty humble homes were no longer ratty, nor humble, but instead were all fixed up by homeowners who must watch a lot of HGTV. Christmas decor was everywhere.
I still remember when my family lived in this place, when it was nothing but modest homes, not far from the beach, with backyards full of sandspurs and dollarweed.
When I passed the house we used to call home I stopped walking. There was a guy on a ladder, stapling Christmas lights onto the house.
The little old place had changed so much. The house had a porch swing, a fence, and a lawn with actual grass. Unbelievable.
The man saw me staring. “Can I help you?” he said in a slightly aggressive tone.
“No, I was just admiring your house.”
He didn’t answer. He seemed annoyed.
So
I kept strolling the loop. I passed kids on bikes, people going for jogs, and puppies out for nightly walks.
Another old house on the corner had also been redone by young ambitious homeowners. It looked superb. Even so. No matter how they gussy up this area, I still associate this neighborhood with a freckled kid who had telephone-pole legs, big teeth, and no dad. Who entertained himself with a clunky old manual typewriter.
I finally exited the neighborhood and made it to the old beach access. Ah, yes. The Gulf. The water was loud, and my face was covered in seaspray. You never get tired of the feeling the Gulf imparts. It will always be home.
I saw a teenage couple walking the shore. Arms hooked. He wore a Santa hat, she wore his jacket. I don’t know what their story is, but I know this…