Essay
Estates
The houses in Franklin Estates were built in the early 60’s, in an era where every neighborhood had a playground and you knew the mailman’s name. Whether the neighborhood had ever measured up to its lofty moniker, I can’t be sure, but the properties were decidedly un-stately now. Low-slung ranchers and cape cods flank both sides of the crumbling black macadam. Aluminum siding stained by years of dirt and grime, is interspersed with peeling shake. The yards, impossibly flat, are a mix of burnt grass, clover, and hard-packed earth, caged unceasingly with rusting chain link. Sidewalks and driveways, a patchwork of broken pavement and asphalt, color the landscape with a mosaic of tans and grays, broken only by the various “For Rent” signs that litter the yards.
Scarred by potholes and oil-stains, the road seemingly abandons any bid for hospitality. The curbs that shoulder the lane surrender to the crab grass that encroaches upon their seams, weaving itself into the concrete buttresses like a tapestry. Partway down one street lay a cut-through between two houses, about 15 feet wide, leading to an open field. Towards the back, off to the left, the skeletal remains of an old swing set aggressively rusts in the sun, chains long-ago severed by some unseen hand or force. Beside it, a footprint of a once upon a time sliding board is carved into the earth like a memory. The monkey bars that must have accompanied them, lost to memory and time, vanished without a trace.
Despite its hard-scrabble appearance, the neighborhood is still humming with life. Rocking chairs pepper small front porches decorated with American flags, edged by small gardens growing pansies and marigolds. Gingham curtains softly billow through open windows. A woman laughs. A cat blinks at me from the front window of a tidy little cape cod.
The lawns are all cropped short, the trees and gardens edged with natural stone and mulch. Upon closer look, someone has scattered seed over the dead and dying patches of grass. A sign reads “Love Lives Here.” Flagpoles stand proudly in front yards shaded by trees that tower above the small houses. On the far side of the old playground stands a new slide and basketball court.
This place should feel tired and worn, a poignant portrait of what once was. I try to imagine how it looked in its prime: neat little houses with gleaming sidewalks and perfectly manicured lawns. Housewives who met for tea while their children played in the sprinklers in the front yard. Backyard barbeques. Civic association meetings. Did you hear that John’s son is joining the Navy?
Nevertheless, love still lives here. The people here obviously take pride in their small little houses, tend their neat little gardens and fight against the passage of time. They still sit on their front porches and wave at the neighbors. Even I get a wave, an interloper in this tidy little subdivision that time has forgotten.
Scarred by potholes and oil-stains, the road seemingly abandons any bid for hospitality. The curbs that shoulder the lane surrender to the crab grass that encroaches upon their seams, weaving itself into the concrete buttresses like a tapestry. Partway down one street lay a cut-through between two houses, about 15 feet wide, leading to an open field. Towards the back, off to the left, the skeletal remains of an old swing set aggressively rusts in the sun, chains long-ago severed by some unseen hand or force. Beside it, a footprint of a once upon a time sliding board is carved into the earth like a memory. The monkey bars that must have accompanied them, lost to memory and time, vanished without a trace.
Despite its hard-scrabble appearance, the neighborhood is still humming with life. Rocking chairs pepper small front porches decorated with American flags, edged by small gardens growing pansies and marigolds. Gingham curtains softly billow through open windows. A woman laughs. A cat blinks at me from the front window of a tidy little cape cod.
The lawns are all cropped short, the trees and gardens edged with natural stone and mulch. Upon closer look, someone has scattered seed over the dead and dying patches of grass. A sign reads “Love Lives Here.” Flagpoles stand proudly in front yards shaded by trees that tower above the small houses. On the far side of the old playground stands a new slide and basketball court.
This place should feel tired and worn, a poignant portrait of what once was. I try to imagine how it looked in its prime: neat little houses with gleaming sidewalks and perfectly manicured lawns. Housewives who met for tea while their children played in the sprinklers in the front yard. Backyard barbeques. Civic association meetings. Did you hear that John’s son is joining the Navy?
Nevertheless, love still lives here. The people here obviously take pride in their small little houses, tend their neat little gardens and fight against the passage of time. They still sit on their front porches and wave at the neighbors. Even I get a wave, an interloper in this tidy little subdivision that time has forgotten.