With Memorial Day weekend, summer is about to come to Myrtle-Clinton Corners.
The Mountain Laurel and Spirea are in full bloom and, with all the rain we've
had, flowers are everywhere.

The progressive dinner that began with just a few houses in our neighborhood
almost ten years ago has now grown, each year including several more houses
along the street and more occasions. It was originally held in February, when
winter seems endless and spring hopelessly far away. Now, our gatherings seem
to continue throughout the year -- one family has a Christmas party, another
one has one at Hallowe'en, another July 4th. It's amazing how easily new
neighbors join in -- as if they have lived here forever. This afternoon
marked the first neighborhood gathering of the season, which was being held
at the home of one of our most recent additions.

My neighborhood has seen some great changes over the past year. One of our
neighbors -- a young man in his 40s -- passed away just recently, leaving a
wife and three children about the same age as my sons. We already have
several new families and, by September, we will have three more. Several of
my longtime and dearly-loved neighbors are moving away.

I walk to the party along the old stone sidewalk, past iron fences and
hitching posts and cobblestones that have been in the same place for 100
years, and turn down a small walk to the back yard. Children are everywhere
-- playing, giggling, crying, running. Among them are two brand-new babies,
still in the snurffling stage. I get to hold one -- I am always amazed at how
tiny they are. The grown-ups circulate, carrying around their plastic cups of
beer or wine and balancing very full paper plates. They chat happily about
kids and school and life ... How is your son doing? What are your plans for
the summer? Shall we plan a farewell picnic for late August? I was so sorry
to hear about your mother. Come on, join the bocci game...!  The new widow is
not among the partygoers.

My son just graduated from high school yesterday. I sit among the other
mothers with a vague feeling of relief and ... well, accomplishment, I guess.
A child who I thought would never make it to age three has survived to his
almost-nineteenth birthday and, in fact, has distinguished himself among his
peers.

Finally the light begins to fade, the bocci game ends, and the charcoal fire
dies out. Dishes are cleared away, napkins gathered up. We all say our
good-byes and start for home. As I turn the corner onto Myrtle Ave., I think
about the many other feet that had walked on these old stones. They belonged
to folks who lived, grieved, and had new babies, too. They planted flowers,
worried about taxes, and had kids who skinned their knees, cried, laughed,
struggled, and eventually graduated from high school. Just like mine. And I
bet they would have enjoyed the party, too. Just like I did.

How interesting it is to live in a neighborhood that extends itself so easily
across time as well as space.

Mary