I grew up in an unusual neighbourhood. Everyone knew everyone else and yet, they still enjoyed getting together with each other. Out of about twenty homes on the street, I could go into at least nine of them and raid the fridge for milk and cookies anytime I wanted. They wouldn’t even call the police! Imagine having nine complete households to hang out in! It was great.
Having all those good neighbours also meant that there was nine households that needed garbage taken out or the poop scoop done, eighteen adults that could call me over from the park to help them with chores, nine sets of parents keeping an eye on me. If I misbehaved at the park, by the time I made my way home (six houses away), my Mom would be waiting for me at the front door, already up-to-date with my misdemeanour. I keep telling the Government to use moms for intelligence gathering – they always know everything!
Those were the days.
We had epic water fights in the summer, more often than not started by the adults. There was one fight that lasted more than three hours and spanned five houses spread over both sides of the street. Moms were pouring buckets out of kitchen windows and slamming them shut so they wouldn’t get wet, Dads were holding on to the hoses out front and filling buckets and squirt guns for both sides, ensuring there was an equal delivery of water into the bucket and into the child holding said bucket.
One poor guy was lost as he turned onto our street and had to hit the brakes to avoid hitting a 40-year-old man being chased by a ten-year-old girl. We all stopped play for a bit, waiting for him to pass by. With wide eyes, looking at about twenty people all soaking wet on either side of him, he said to me “What’s going on?”
I said “We’re having a water fight. Do you want to join in?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” He almost got his windows up in time.
We also had one of the first Stampede Block parties that stretched into a 15 year tradition. We started with a Stampede breakfast at about 8:00 am that went until almost 11:00 am. We had eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausages, apple juice for the kids and champagne and orange juice for the adults. Then we’d all pick up the lawn chairs, drinks and cutlery and move to someone else’s house for lunch until about 3 or 4 o’clock.
A quick run to the grocery and/or liquor store to restock just about everything and we’d head to the third house to have the dinner barbeque – steaks, hotdogs, hamburgers, every kind of salad imaginable and of course, those little ice cream cups with the tiny little spoons for dessert. After dinner, we’d block off the road and someone would drag out their stereo and all the adults that wouldn’t caught dead in a cowboy get-up would be dancing in too tight boots and jeans ‘til the wee hours of the morning.
Apparently, you need a permit to close a residential road for any reason. Considering that the entire street was at the party, the police cruiser that rolled by decided that as long as we cleaned the place up, he’d let it slide – this time. I think he just wanted to join us for an hour or so. Maybe seeing all the somewhat inebriated adults trying to dance a two-step made him sympathetic. Can’t arrest people for bad dancing – too much paperwork.
I think it’s time to bring back those days. We should know our neighbours well enough to know which house has the best cookies and which one has the best liquor cabinet. I’ll tell you what, I’ll start. Don’t be surprised when you see me at your door, clipboard in hand, ready to inventory your place. Once I have everyone’s info, I’ll set the date for the water fight and then the breakfast/lunch/dinner barbeque. See you soon.
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