The Block Party

Once again, our little street closes down from traffic with bright orange cones signaling the annual block party. 

Children ride bikes and motorized mini cars. They splash about with water games and draw with chalk. All the dogs come out. The parents gather in a semicircle of camping chairs. We bring desserts and side dishes, and the neighbors in the middle of the street provide “the meats.” 

Smoked brisket, grilled chicken, burgers, hot dogs, and ribs arrive to the food tent set up between the two middle houses. Shaded and kept free from insects here, the food just keeps coming. 

And we sit. All day, we sit and talk, petting dogs and watching children. We hold the babies. We marvel about growing children and new grandchildren from the street patriarch. 

Here, you swap stories. You sip your soda. It’s a slow, all day kind of thing. 

My oldest offers her services as babysitter. Eight years ago, she was six years old here. Now this. 

I have to sign off. All the pies are arriving to the food tent. 

This day reminds me of the joys of neighborhood living. I have nowhere to be but here. 

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