When I was in college and started forming my adult opinions I decided that I would never, ever, live in the suburbs. I would live in apartments in the city, or a townhouse maybe, where I didn't have to worry about weeding the flowerbeds or raccoons getting into the garbage, or any other suburban conundrum. I would be a Bohemian, haughtily opposed to the ridiculous and meaningless problems of the middle class suburban drone.
Then I grew up. I lived in a series of apartments. Between 1984 and 2005 I lived in 3 apartments in Knoxville and 2 here in Atlanta. My last residence before this was, technically, a condo, but it looked just like an apartment.
One day I remember driving down Henderson Mill Road and seeing all the middle class suburban houses and feeling a strange sense of longing. The yards were well-tended. There were brick schools on the road, and churches. There were many trees. I was still living in my condo, which was nice, but suddenly I longed to live in a solid and real home.
My heart longed for the stability of a house, with a yard, and trees and shrubs. I wanted a dog. I wanted real roots here in Atlanta. A house meant all those things.
Above, the house where I spent the most time when I was growing up, what we call the Venice Road house in Knoxville.
When I dream about my childhood, this is the house that usually appears. We lived in 3 different houses in Augusta between 1959 and 1971, when we moved to Knoxville. My memories of those houses are vague, although the last one is pretty clear.
What strikes me now about the Venice Road house in Knoxville is that in hindsight I realize it was a place of sanctuary.
I could tell you the names of every family on our street. I could name all the kids who lived in those houses. I could identify most of the families in the neighborhood.
That first winter, we sledded down the steep hill that led to our house. I had never seen snow that stuck to the ground, or had a snowball fight, or gone sledding. I had never experienced much winter, because winter in Augusta is very mild, usually only requiring a light jacket, on a January day.
A short walk away, in Knoxville, there were still farmers, and we bought vegetables from the farms. When you drove the country road behind our suburb you could see the mountains.
If there's anything I miss about Knoxville, it's the mountains. I took them for granted.
I didn't realize until I became a mom in late 2004 how much I wanted my daughter to know the sanctuary and comfort of a house.
We moved to this house in 2005, and Mother and I started sharing our lives again, and sharing the care of my children.
Our house
It's not a mansion. The driveway is bumpy. The patio needs pressure washing. There are always maintenance chores to be done.
However, it's a home.
Last night I was ill. I had - and still have, to an extent - some kind of stomach bug.
I called my next door neighbor last night after 9, on a Saturday, and she came right over and walked Lola, and helped me upstairs to bed. There was nobody I could've called on like that when I lived at the condo, or in any of my apartments.
I have come to realize that neighbors are what makes a place a home. We are blessed here with excellent, caring neighbors.
Michael's first birthday in this house, 2007
We got Michael home on May 9, 2007. He spoke very little English. He was tiny, and scared, and very clingy with me. Two months and a couple of weeks later, I wanted to do something for this first birthday in America. He hadn't made any friends because he was still learning English. He mostly just played with his sister.
We invited the kids in the nighborhood, on our street, plus another family with adopted Russian speaking kids. Everyone came and played games, ate cake, and had fun. The kids welcomed Michael and gave him a happy afternoon, filled with laughter and presents. I was so grateful.
There are so many ways in which we are blessed to live here.
The last time we had a big snow, Snowpocalypse in 2011, the schools were closed for a week. One of our neighbors loaned Michael 2 really nice sleds, and Michael and Colton sledded all over the place and had a blast.
That same neighbor saw my mailbox knocked over a few months later and just stopped and fixed it, without fanfare.
At Christmas we always get small gifts from our neighbors. When someone new moves in we welcome them with food.
We are not just a bunch of WASPS. On this street where I live we have Catholics, Jews, gay couples, interracial couples, Asians -- pretty much a melting pot.
The suburbs are not a desolate, soulless place, not necessarily. Our neighborhood is a great one, with caring people. We are very blessed to live here.
