A Neighborhood's Fraying Fabric

Recently scanning through my journal entries from years ago, I was taken with just how many people have passed through my life. Scores and scores of coworkers, bandmates, classmates, neighbors, friends – even family members – who were once cornerstones of my existence, I no longer keep in touch with, not because of any conflict or falling out, but through a gradual decline of contact until there was no contact at all, a sort of relational evanescence. John Lennon wrote of such a phenomenon in the song “In My Life” when he was all of 25 years old, but I’m now 55; the number of people I once knew but no longer know is staggering.  

Making me feel even more uneasy is the change I’ve witnessed recently in my own town and neighborhood. One might be quick to undermine the superficial relationships that we naturally cultivate over time, but their absence can lead to a real sense of loss. When walking my dog to a nearby park, I used to have a 50/50 chance of running into someone I “kinda sorta” knew: Chris who watched Cubs games in the garage, Colleen who could talk my ear off with her banter, Margaret who’s oldest was in my daughter’s grade. Now all of them have moved away, as have several other neighbors who once lived on my street and other friends from my town who’ve opted for greener pastures further out in suburbia, or further still in states like Florida or Colorado.

Gradually, the fabric of the neighborhood as I once knew it is fraying. People who weaved in and out of my life have left dangling threads, and I’m beginning to feel that the ties that bind me to my home of 23 years are becoming looser, leaving me uneasily untethered.

I’m a creature of habit. I like my house and the stuff in it. I like walking the dog and seeing the same people every morning. I like sitting on my front porch with my wife and having familiar neighbors stroll by and say hello. I’d like it even more if my kids lived a few blocks away, stopping by for a quick chat or a Sunday dinner, but this is not to be, as none of my three children even live in the same state as me, much less the same neighborhood.

Carol King once sang, “Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” Very few it seems. And I fear becoming the last old guy on the street who people point to when discussing the history of the neighborhood. “Ask Paul. He’s been here forever.”

One day I may have to make the choice of either relocating simply to move with the times or staying put and becoming lost in time. I wish there was a third option: everyone staying where they are.