living vicariously through bare windows

Several nights a week, my evenings are capped off with a leisurely stroll around my old West Austin neighborhood, known for one reason or another as Clarksville. Even in the heat of the summer, dusk brings with it cooler temperatures that make walks more than bearable but craved. I love that the comfortable couples and old-fashioned residents appreciate bare windows -- it allows me to catch glances of lives other than my own.

Last night's walk led to an odd but happy discovery. It started in the park, where most days teams of 20- and 30-something neighbors battle it out old-school style with rowdy kickball games and other, less active types tend to the small but lucrative garden. The city pool here is tiny, a simple circle that's probably 20 feet across and a mere 3.5 feet deep, with one lonely lifeguard on duty. The dog run, a prime spot for effortlessly meeting people, has been empty lately due to the monster bulldozer reconfiguring the area. I sat on one of the swings at the hillside playground-- a hands-down favorite childhood escape that now, sadly, makes me nauseous in about 2.9 seconds. While sitting there, quietly appreciating the changing colors of the evening sky turning to night, C & I noticed two school-aged boys tiptoeing toward the center of the open field. They bent down, and in the dark of night, it was hard to make out anything other than the rough outline of their two bodies. Soon they took off running, taking cover behind the vines of the nearby garden. Seconds later, a green and pink explosion led to giggles followed by a mad dash to get out of the park. I, however, stayed on my swing, much too comfortable to react to child's play. It took a minute or two before the walk's "discovery" began, when slowly the burnt, powdery smell of the used firecracker made it to the swings. Instantly I thought of the last time my family played with fireworks, probably 20 years ago. This summertime smell, accompanied by another familiar aroma of freshly cut grass, was the start to an evening of olfactory reflection.

We left the park and headed north, into the darkest part of the neighborhood but also the best for glancing in bare living room windows. As we crossed into the street, I smelled roly-polys. Now C says he has no clue what roly-polys smell like, but for some reason, I feel like I do. The only way I can explain it is as an earthy, dirt-like smell that reminds me of early evenings in the backyard as a kid, digging for worms and making mud pies. I vaguely remember playing with pill bugs as well (aka roly-polys), flicking them so they roll around the sidewalk and then pushing them along into the grass so they don't get trampled by pedestrians.

Just two houses down the street, I admired a modest, well-kept house with an odd but creative layout. Rather than a traditional front door and entryway, the home opens into a massive, wide-open kitchen...I've never seen anything like it before. And, as a woman who would happily live in one monster kitchen if it was amply outfitted, I was slightly jealous. From this house wafted the oh-so-perfect smell of freshly-laundered clothes. It almost gave me the chills, it was so yummy.

As I noticed this smell and commented aloud, C mentioned that someone, possibly the lucky owners of my new favorite house, was grilling a perfectly seasoned, juicy steak within a few feet of us. Ugh - what a life! Having lived in a quaint albeit TINY shoebox apartment with a fantastic but itty bitty courtyard and a stupid anti-grill policy, we've been craving grilled steaks for oh, I'd say 3.5 years. And here I'd found quite possibly the best kitchen AND a medium rare steak ready and waiting.

But we trudged on despite the pull of this little house. And a couple minutes later, as we passed a convertible Audi parked oddly in front of the one out of place, desolate looking house on the street, I was immediately struck by a smell I hadn't encountered in at least 15 years -- watermelon Bubblicious. Just saying those two words makes my mouth water and my blood sugar spike simultaneously.

It took several more blocks--past fancy Jeffery's and the blooming corner nursery, beyond our last-minute grocery stop, Fresh Plus, and back among homes again--before I came across the final smell of the night. As we talked about the older architecture of this particular section of the neighborhood, I immediately noticed the smell of old, slightly musty library books. As soon as the words rolled off my tongue, C agreed. As a child and young adult who absolutely loved the library and all the sensory experiences there, it didn't surprise me much that I'd come up with that thought in this area of Clarksville.

As we made it back home, I began to realize how many memories came up with each odd recognition. That's exactly what makes these nighttime neighborhood walks so much fun.