this is our gypsy camp: Close Quarters

We live in them. There's no particular reason that it's on my mind (sorry, no juicy anti-neighbor stories--you'll have to ask them for stories about us if that's what you're after). It's just that last night, when I was walking the dog more or less in my pajamas and thinking about what a hausfrau I am, that I realized how amazingly packed in we are in our little squares, 12 families in what would be one suburban plot outside Atlanta. Hmm, maybe I'll call it a piazza, just for fun.

Actually, I rather like it. Our last two housing arrangements were either quite isolated or had periods of isolation. Our neighborhood in Arizona was perched on the edge of the mountains and slated for demolition. When we moved there it was about half empty, and as people moved away they weren't replaced. The low houses hunkered down like they were awaiting an Apache attack or trying to avoid the rattlesnakes, bears, and mountain lions that lived just across the street. (The tarantulas and coyotes had already infiltrated this side.) There was one unit, catty corner from our back yard, that had clearly been empty for months--the chain-link fence was holey, screens were perpetually falling off the windows, and the back screen door slapped and banged in the wind, always bouncing open instead of staying closed. Most other houses had a cement wall around their front porch, but this one had a tall wooden fence that had completely collapsed and been left there. Eventually the front door was permanently open.

(creepy catty corner casa)

It was super creepy. I worried a little about drug smugglers and psychos. But the husband was around almost every single night we lived there, so that was OK. It was also super annoying because it ended up in a lot of my pictures of the mountain sunsets and clouds that Arizona does so well.

Eventually they started clearing the empty houses of dishwashers, ovens, and other salvageables. And then they'd put a big check mark on the outside. What famous images does this remind you of?

There were upsides to these houses. My parents had lived in one with the floor plan reversed in 1983-84, a few streets over, so that was funny. Each one had a great big picture window in the living room, so thanks to Evangeline I got to see stunning sunrises. And the windows in the bedrooms were high up and narrow, so even if you never closed the blinds there was no awkward accidental neighbor-spying. The convenience sort of balanced out the insane-asylum feeling with the cinder block walls and windows you couldn't escape from. And the views were stunning.

December

January

Sometimes I looked for a fairy castle like in Saint George and the Dragon on that mountain.

We were the second-to-last people to move off of our street. They started putting up construction fences and even blocked off our road before we told the construction crew we still lived there. A couple of months later our friend told us the whole neighborhood had been razed. It's sort of a weird feeling knowing that everything you recognized about a spot is gone, but mostly I was happy. Someone else will get to live in that beautiful place, but in a better house. And I'm sure that they kept that nice playground with the sunshade (named in memory of a Lieutenant Pimple, whom I shall never forget).

I just realized that this is going to be too long, so I shall continue tomorrow. But I guess I'll show you our house: