Life Inside Those Homes

As I sit inside my home, in my living room, sliding glass doors open, I appreciate the cool breeze blowing from outside.  I can hear the cows from the farm residing behind our home.  Occasionally, we will see and hear them riding their horses.  Birds of all shapes and sizes come and go, calling the fish filled pond their home.  Our dog, like a lion, oversees his new kingdom for hours all day and into the night under the stars.  Our cat saunters in and out as he pleases, purring loudly, eyeing the large birds conspicuously.  

We live in the suburbs, yet our plot of land surprised us with its added perks of country life.  We are fortunate considering we had no idea our land would feel more like country living, complete with a white picket fence and sunsets each evening.  We have made a peaceful home-life with the benefits of civilization, adequate square footage, an outstanding school district, and life as we know it, has become stable and predictable. This is of course a good thing.

I made it a point this weekend to ride my bike throughout my neighborhood.  It’s called Watersedge because of all the lakes and ponds peppered in and around it.  Many homes are waterfront or have a view of a water landscape.  It's the American dream in a nut shell; everything a growing family could hope for, a retiree would work for, and its a young couple's dream come true.  It is here in Watersedge. 

I rode my bike with an intent. I rode with purpose.  Who were the people inside the line of homes I drive by every day?  Who are those people inside those homes?  I rode down streets with ridiculous made up names: Goosecross Court, Storybrook Lane, Duckhorn Court.  I rode and observed, absorbing each and every home.

There are the larger homes with beautiful Florida palm trees of all shapes and sizes in the gated community.  There are the smaller homes, reminiscent of landscaping I grew up with up north, brown leaves withered on the ground.  Each subsection of the neighborhood radiated differently, based on the age of the homes, the outside decor and the manicured plots. Each home told a story very different from the one next to it, the one down the block or the one in the next mini subdivision.  Each home unique in it's own way, however, eerily similar. 

The only piece of reality I could not comprehend was why, on this gorgeous day in March, I saw so few people outside?  The occasional jogger or person working in their garage, but no young people, no kids playing, no moms or dads, not one person outside their home.  It didn't matter what spectrum of the wealth scale homeowners were from, everyone was hungered down in the safety of their homes.  Many cars, but no people.  Is this truly the American dream?

Many of the homes, with their beautiful landscapes at the foot of their doors, only steps from a picturesque and safe neighborhood, to bike ride, walk or run.  They could visit the playground or sit outside; yet the streets were unusually quiet.  

There are no excuses, this day was not too hot, it was not too cold, yet I rode my bike in solitude. 

I took it all in, I enjoyed the exquisite views of my new life, the American dream as its being dreamed, wondering with earnest, what goes on inside those homes? 

Who have we Americans become?