Good Morning.
I live on a very eclectic street, smack dab in the middle of a city pushing 200,000 people. The street is the main drag through the downtown retail area bustling with family-owned shops, art galleries, coffee houses, and restaurants, one of them a shiny 50s-style dinner. It was moved from another location and people fussed about whether it would fit in. It does. When you do eclectic, everything fits in.
The businesses are on the ground level of old buildings, all of them well-maintained. The spaces above have been converted into lofts that attract a nice contingent of young people, many who own dogs. There are venues for live music and sufficient establishments to keep the human types supplied with a variety of beverages. For close to half the year, there are outside tables with umbrellas in front of any place that serves food or drink. Even better are the sculptures that are placed every few feet throughout the retail area. Artists submit their work to a committee that selects a variety of pieces, periodically changed for new creations. There is every kind of parade and celebration from art festivals to a display of Corvettes.
If you head south out of downtown, you'll come to some fairly substantial falls that cascade over huge rocks into a river, not a big one but it does the job for canoers and kayakers. There's a restaurant overlooking the falls, an outdoor space for theater productions, and an artists' barn; the park areas will shortly be lit up for Christmas, and I mean lit. We're talking serious fairy land here.
If you head north out of downtown, you'll be in a residential section with a mishmash of dwellings, all of them built before 1950 which means they're nestled among what the realtors call "mature trees and shrubs". The city had no zoning for a long time so anyone could build what he or she could afford. Thus you can have a big Tudor across the street from a doll house that is next to a Colonial. Nobody seems too concerned about it. My previous home was the only one of Spanish style and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was built in 1929 by a man whose wife was from New Mexico and wanted something that reminded her of home. I heard it was actually more of a "If you build it, I will come, otherwise I won't" sort of deal.
The people who live in these houses are just as varied as the sizes, shapes, and building materials. Within a couple of blocks of where I live now - because I moved only four houses away so I could stay in this oddly delicious neighborhood - there's an optician, a newspaper columnist, a sports team owner, a church youth pastor, a symphony conductor, a hairstylist, several college professors, two physicians, and the usual complement of retired folks scattered among the gainfully employed. On many early Sunday mornings, joggers run down the middle of the street, often for a charitable cause. Otherwise it is busy with motorized traffic, including bus service. It is also one of the first to be plowed out.
My daughter and I had a conversation yesterday about the political divisiveness and the terrorist attack in New York and she says it's wise to concentrate on things that provide comfort and relief from all the trouble. I agree. If I didn't live on my happy street, I'd take myself into the countryside and live on a farm. A farm would be good right about now, maybe one without Internet and cable service.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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