Home
by James Shandrowski
It sounds strange but it is the truth. I know it is common for people to fall asleep to the sounds of ocean waves crashing, or even a soft lullaby, but for me, unless there is the piercing sound of a siren from a first responder vehicle going by, or a car horn blaring that wakes up every dog in the neighborhood, I may have trouble getting some rest. As far back as I can remember, my Mom and Dad were always searching for a new place to live on a QUIET street.
It’s a standard size suburban home with a tan-ish beige exterior, and a slanted brown roof. But it wasn’t the rather ordinary style and color that caused my parents’ perennial search for a new house. Rather, it could all be boiled down to one thing, the street. Located right on main street, you could consider yourself as lucky as a lottery ticket winner if you were able to back out of the driveway in less time than it would take you to drive to your destination.
“I hate this street,” was my mother’s constant refrain growing up.
The street is a thin, long strip of road with houses of various colors yet similar shape and design: suburbia. Just an average grey road with a bright yellow line right down the middle, and cars racing each other up and down all day and night. If we had lived a few houses up the road, our backyard would have been painted blue, with the waters of the Housatonic River. My dad, who loves fishing, would have loved that. But, instead of waking up to the sound of flowing, rushing water from the river, our background noise is car horns and traffic.
There are certain things that get lost when living on a constantly moving road. When I was in grade school, I was once invited to a friend of mine’s house for a birthday party. Being a party for many young children, there were various activities set up for us. One of those included a bike race. This was the one that had my nerves struck as if they were hit with a bolt of lighting. I have no memories of learning to ride a bike down my street, or even on the sidewalks; those still have a risk factor of their own. The art of riding a bike is still one that I am a little apprehensive of telling others I am still no good at.
On a similar, yet different occasion, a friend from grade school came over to my house. He was very much a kid who enjoyed playing sports and spending time outside. After we had played a few games inside the house, he wanted to start shifting our activities, and asked if there was anything we could do outside. We could have thrown a ball in my backyard for a little while, but, if we had lost the ball over our yard fence and it started taking an afternoon stroll down the street, that would be the last we’d ever see of it. So, our activities remained inside for the rest of the day.
Safe to say, this house and the street it was built on was not the ideal choice for anyone; with the exception of me.
However, through all the setbacks, and the various things that are lost when living on an ever moving street, one thing that it never lacked, was the sense of life; the feeling that people were always there. I was never alone. No matter if it was the earliest morning before the sun had arisen, or in the middle of the darkest night, the life of the street was vibrant, noisy, and everpresent. The sounds of cars, one right after the other, racing down the road, and the horns that blare when someone gets mad at someone else. The sights of road work and construction signs that pop up as the roads become filled with police cars, and men and women in orange, as some piece of this street that never sleeps needs fixing.
The road may be packed, and challenging to drive on, but it is never dull, and it never feels empty. Even when it is me all alone in my house, it never feels empty. So, if having the never-ending feeling of people’s presence and life means having to sleep through a few horns and speeding cars every night, that is a trade I am always willing to make. It’s my loud, busy, pulsating piece of the world and, unlike my parents, I love the place I call home.
