American Dream

I say that the last place that I want to live is suburbia, but the problem is...I grew up there. And, yes, weirdly enough, there are things that I miss.

I miss hanging out in somebody else's kitchen, talking for hours about, you know, stuff.

I miss calling my friends--on the telephone!--and asking if they want to come over and play without having to schedule weeks in advance.

I miss sitting on the front lawn pulling up blades of grass and watching the cars--never very many--go by.

I miss walking home from school through the neighborhood pretending that my book bag was my friend and that bushes were actually matter transporters if only I had the courage to walk into one.

I miss sledding down the hill beside the freeway with the creek at the bottom.

I miss spending every day in the summer at the subdivision pool getting browner and browner and playing "Sharks & Minnows" in the deep end.

I miss piano lessons with Mrs. Reiser, even though I never practiced as much as I should.

I miss the backyard full of dog poop that it was theoretically my job to pick up. I think Mom probably ending up picking up more of the poop than I ever did.

I miss having a house with a garage and an upstairs.

I miss Jell-o pudding and Zingers and Chef-Boyardee.

I miss Saturday morning cartoons.

I miss gymnastics class and trying to learn how to do a back walkover on my mat in the basement.

I miss the backboard in the driveway where I used to practice shooting hoops.

I miss the smell of grass and trees and honeysuckle in the evenings.

I miss the feeling of coming home from school.

I miss my friends.