EXTRA, EXTRA
I grew up in a typical non-descript middle class neighborhood. Families were predominantly University Professors, public school teachers and GM execs. The south end of the neighborhood street was newer, and had a title -- Shaker Heights. The houses were bigger and they had sidewalks. The north end of the neighborhood street -- where I grew up -- was older. The houses were a little smaller, and we had neither sidewalks nor a title. We called ourselves "Shaker Flats", just for fun. The elementary school was a quick 5-minute walk away, so we had a built-in playground year-round. It was a neighborhood where you could ride your bike in the street, and hear your mom call you for dinner, even if you were playing in a yard six houses away. Families knew each other and kids played with each other. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but looking back now, I can see how lucky I was to live there.

This morning the newspapers scream murder. In my neighborhood. On my street. I saw the house on the news. I remember the house, and I remember the family. The mother -- the victim -- was a highly regarded University Professor. Her son was a good friend of my younger brother. They lived in this quiet, nondescript neighborhood, where nothing ever happened except the daily ins and outs of life.

Because the University was so close to our house, I lived at home during my undergraduate years. It made the most financial sense, since I was footing the ole collegiate bill myself. Besides, I figured that since I grew up with three siblings, I didn't need to live in a dorm and learn how to share. So I lived at home, which was just fine with me. I lived on that quiet street from the age of eight until the age of twenty-two. The neighborhood saw me through elementary school plays, middle school dances, drivers ed, the prom, high school graduation, college and a college degree. It was a long time. After my mother sold the house, I didn't go back to the neighborhood very often, because when I did, it felt strange to me. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn't changed at all. The neighborhood was the same -- but I didn't live there anymore. I felt out of place. It was unsettling because I was now an outsider, looking in.

A couple of years back, a friend of mine moved back to mitten country. He moved back to my old neighborhood, and for awhile, he moved back into his family house, which happened to be two doors down from mine. We reconnected, and I had an opportunity to revisit the neighborhood again. Although it still seemed strange because it was so unchanged, this time, I didn't feel out of place. Instead of feeling sad and unsettled, I felt nostalgic. I could be there and appreciate the coziness of this neighborhood. The city itself had mushroomed over the decades, but this particular street somehow remained quiet and untouched. A modern-day Rip Van Winkle. It felt nice to be back.

Now the neighbors are in shock. The University is mourning the loss of a distinguished academician and colleague. My cozy neighborhood on my quiet street that was so non-descript, where nothing ever happened has now changed. And with that change came one of my saddest realizations. My neighborhood wasn't non-descript. It wasn't ordinary. It was special. It was safe. It was children and families and adults together. It was community. And now it has changed. Now it is just another ordinary street in another ordinary neighborhood in another ordinary city.

Where the papers scream murder.
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