Home in the Neighborhood

I’ve heard my neighborhood referred to as “the bohemian part of town” by people who have lived here their entire lives. I never really took on to it in the last two years that I’ve been here. However, in a conversation today, I realized that “bohemian” is probably an appropriate adjective. I mean, we don’t have a naked cowboy and the scent of patchouli won’t assault your nostrils, at least not when you’re on the sidewalk. We do, however, have a wandering minstrel, who owns at least three stringed instruments that he plays as he strolls along the streets. We also have a black man in a kilt who walks a bichon frise. More than one home has an arguable excessive, though tidy, number of mosaics, stained glass windows, and other artwork hanging from their porch and in their front yard. The older woman who lives in the condo next to mine has “decorated” the hallway with her “art” which generally consists of a clock, some sort of plastic flowering bush with a duck perched in it, and something seasonal. There are garden animals in her parking spot, featuring a rabbit, frog, alligator, and their little metal and acrylic friends. Another of my neighbors has obscured the make of their car with liberal bumper stickers. One of the restaurants up the street is decorated with foil balls dotting the ceiling tiles, framed paint-by-number posters, and reclaimed mailboxes that have been morphed into sea animals. The local coffee shop gives the Starbucks across the street stiff competition. It all makes me feel at home.