When I think about my street, or perhaps I should say my block, I mean the block I grew up on, the street of my childhood.
Summer nights. Kids sitting on stoops eating candy, eating ices or ice cream, eating pumpkin seeds, eating those candy buttons with the paper that always got into our teeth. Kids sitting on stoops reading comics, listening to somebody’s transistor radio, singing with the records. The kid who owned the radio got to pick the station.
And the adults, sitting on beach chairs, calling out the windows, talking, gossiping.
And the cats. Pet cats, some kept home, some allowed outside. Independent cats. Cats calling to their friends. My cat, the first one we allowed to go out, going to see one of his many girlfriends. His name was Kelpie, but it should have been Catanova!
And the traffic going by, the car horns honking and honking.
The block was… the streets were…. noisy then, and many are usually noisy more than fifty years later.
But now, while there are still people calling out the window, and some cars driving by, the streets are quiet, empty.
Perhaps by summer, they will be noisy, wonderfully, blessedly noisy again.