I live in a small rural community. My road is what you would call a “dead end.” I’ve always disliked that term and would prefer “no outlet,” but preferences and rules always have a conflict with rules winning out. Anyway, my “dead end” is a microcosm of age and culture.
At the start of my road is a home for transient women who come and go as needed.
As you move up my road, the ten or so houses become more individualized, single family and distinct. There are one-story homes with a couple of bedrooms. The maximum abode would be two stories, and that would also include a utilized or finished basement.
I’m the oldest now on this road. When I first moved in nearly twenty years ago, I was probably in the middle with all generations in between including babies, toddlers, grade-school children and teenage children.
What is seemingly unique to this neighborhood, based upon my experience of living in many other places is that we each know the other’s name and we each look out for the other.
Through the years we had illness and infirmity in homes along the road. We had births and the elderly passing. We have all spectrums of income and all political ideals. We rarely socialize, but we talk to each other, and our commonality is a concern for the other. I’m not sure you can find that in a lot of places, but it flourishes here.