My neighborhood is both creepy and awesome.  We take three to six-mile dog walks nearly every day through our Old Richmond surroundings(don’t worry — I’ve offset all of this activity by increasing my ice cream bar consumption by 50%).  Our house is a standard and practical 1950’s house, but it’s on the edge of a neighborhood with varying types of giant, sometimes gaudy, old wooden homes with giant yards, porches, and shady trees.  Very Southern Gothic.  Very “Fifty years ago my grandmother’s brother killed himself in the attic after learning of his girlfriend’s infidelity and this is the summer that I found out the whole story and what became of the girlfriend” — which I have confirmed is an acceptable way to describe a design style.

But the thing about the neighborhood that gets me is the amount of kids and the way they look.  They are usually without parents, and when I walk by them they seem sad and wise, as if they’re living out a coming-of-age novel set in the early seventies.  Or they found a dead body in the creek.  Plus they stare at me.  Kids are weird.

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