A Street That Thought It Knew Itself
The sun had only begun to peek over the chimneys on Oak Street when I stepped onto my porch, coffee in hand, already plotting how to save my drooping petunias.
At seventy-four, I’ve learned that dawn reveals a neighborhood’s true self — before the cars start, before the leaf blowers roar, before opinions grow louder than the birds.
I’m Eleanor Walsh. I’ve lived here for thirty-five years — long enough to see kids outgrow their training wheels and parents outgrow their patience.
And in all that time, I’ve learned one thing: fences don’t make good neighbors. Kindness does.
