It wasn't always this way. It was once a neighborhood thick with children playing baseball and capture the flag, says his grandmother Cindi Whalen, 54. Forty-five years ago she and her brothers and a brood of neighborhood kids swung sky high from a neighbor's tree swing, coasted their bikes down neighboring streets, roamed the woods and scoured the creek for crawdaddys with hardly a parent in sight.
"Every parent had a different whistle," she recalls. "We just knew our whistle, and then it was time to come in."
It was cow bells in my neighborhood. Sunset in the summer brought out a bell chorus worthy of a World Cup Ski Race.
Worth a read.
