“Uh, okay,” I reply. He dashes into the yard and disappears into the thicket of trees that divides our homes.
“Don’t be a bother,” I call after him, as if he understands what that means. His younger sibling follows closely behind.
I send a quick message to my friend Lisa. “The kids are here. If it’s too much, feel free to send them back.” She responds promptly, “No worries.” Still, I can’t shake my anxiety.
I genuinely appreciate my neighbors. It feels like a blessing, as if fate has intervened to provide us with wonderful neighbors. But I constantly fret that my family might jeopardize this connection.
Seven years ago, before our kids arrived, my husband and I settled into a home nestled among the trees in Pennsylvania. Living in a rural area offers the luxury of space. While we do have neighbors, the houses are each on an acre, making them feel quite distant.
During our home’s construction, a kind older couple built a modular home next to us. They were friendly yet kept to themselves. Across the street was another nice family, although their children were older than mine, who were just infants at the time. Then, last December, both families moved away in the same week.
“Don’t worry,” people reassured us. “Maybe a family with kids will move in.” I was skeptical.
“We’re on our own,” I said to my husband, Tom, “and it doesn’t feel right.”
After a long winter, during which snow lingered until April, I spotted a moving truck next door. I felt a surge of excitement as I watched a mover drop off toys in the yard. “They have kids!” I exclaimed. “And dogs!”
Then the worries set in. What if their dogs barked all night? What if they blasted their music too loud or let their grass grow so high it reached my youngest? Perhaps solitude was preferable. Maybe neighbors were overrated.
I approached the property line and peeked through the trees. I waved and called out, “Welcome!” I introduced myself to Mark and Sarah, a couple from Ohio.
Yes! Midwesterners! They’re known for their friendliness.
I quickly invited them to my daughter’s first birthday celebration. “It’ll be in our backyard. We’re serving Mexican food and will have a piñata.”
“Stop trying to sell it to them,” Tom interjected. “They’ll come.”
“They chose to live next door to us!” I told him. “Their kids are the same age as ours. We’re so fortunate.”
I felt grateful. Our children love playing together, and Sarah and Mark are fantastic neighbors. Sarah, a former teacher like me, is close in age to me, and Mark is a grill enthusiast and a football fan. They bond over craft beers and football talk. We host barbecues on Memorial Day and spontaneous Friday night cookouts. Mark and Tom even cleared a path through the brush, allowing our kids to run freely between our homes without facing traffic. My children can hardly contain their excitement when they see the neighbor kids outside. I don’t have to pry the iPad from their hands; they scramble to put on their shoes before breakfast is even served.
I follow them over to chat with Sarah. Time flies as we talk. Tom arrives home from work, and he and Mark discuss paving our gravel driveways while sharing a beer. On a Tuesday! No more waiting for the weekend to socialize.
Yet, I can’t shake my worries; it’s not the carefree 1980s anymore. I find myself fretting over issues my mother never considered. Am I being too intrusive? Is my youngest throwing a tantrum? Should I call the boys back? I don’t want Sarah to feel she must entertain me. I tell her to let the kids play in my yard for a bit to lighten her load, but they’re all having too much fun to move. So, I sit in my kitchen, typing this reflection, feeling a twinge of guilt.
Soon, the boys return for their swimsuits, eager to dash through the neighbor’s sprinkler. I hope they’re not being a bother.
Did my mother ever question if I was overstaying my welcome? Typically, she wouldn’t know where I was playing until she called my name from the doorway. She’d often push me outside with strict orders to return only after an hour. I’d usually find a friend nearby, and what began as a dull day transformed into an afternoon filled with adventures and laughter. That was childhood in the summer—no schedule, no plans, just wandering the neighborhood until I encountered a friend and returned home dirty and happy.
However, in 2015, we navigate a much more structured world. Playdates are carefully arranged, and children rarely venture outside unsupervised. In our rural area, I often have to drive for 20 minutes just for my son to visit a friend. I’m always nearby, far more present than my mother ever was.
I know Sarah shares similar thoughts. She just texted me an apology for the boys coming home covered in dirt.
“Are you kidding?” I replied. “My boys are just enjoying the summer sun and a sprinkler.”
It truly doesn’t get better than this.
This article was originally published on July 28, 2015.
Summary
Finding good neighbors can feel like a stroke of luck, especially in a rural setting where space is abundant but connections can be scarce. The writer reflects on the joys and anxieties of parenting in a close-knit neighborhood, where children thrive in unstructured play and friendships blossom among adults. As modern parenting shifts towards more structured interactions, the essence of carefree childhood experiences remains cherished.