Suburbia: Country's Distant Cousin?

Although my heart is in the country among the sage brush and sweeping plains, my geographic location currently places me in suburbia, also known as "Pleasantville" or as my children often call it "who-ville."  We call it this because although all of the houses in this particular neighborhood, though relatively new and well kept, all have similar neutral colored siding and identical slate colored roofs and greatly resemble each other.  Let's face it, if it weren't for house numbers and street signs around here, it would be hard to find your way home.

Every night, just after dark, I walk.  I do this because it reminds me that singing crickets do still exist and because it gives me a little time alone with my thoughts - and, as strange as it sounds, because it is the only thing that reminds me of life in the country.

I quickly exit my neighborhood on foot and abandon the sidewalk in favor of the grass.  Although it is uneven and less stable underfoot, it is preferable to the unnatural rigidity of the pavement.  There are no paved roads other than the highway near our country home - and a smart country gal doesn't walk down the highway.

I jog/walk down the side of a busy street near our neighborhood.  It is strangely devoid of street lights and reminds me of the 3/4 mile of dirt road running past our house in the country, lit only by the moon at night.  This may sound a little strange and creepy, but I love the outdoors at night.  Everything that is hot and dry and reclusive during the day seems to come to life with shadows and mystery after sunset.

The dirt road by our farm at twilight.

It is a well known fact among country kids that if there is a tree - you must climb it.  There is a small grove of trees nestled in, what I assume is the back of some ritzy addition, on the northwest corner of this dimly lit street and another busy street directly across from a Walgreens.  Every time I walk by this miniature urban forest, I seriously consider jumping the wrought iron fence and scaling the medium sized oak tree in the middle.  It is, in fact, so tempting that I have taken to walking on the opposite side of the street in hopes that the constant stream of four lanes of traffic will deter me from trespassing.

The best part of these nightly strolls is the smell.  Even in the city, the smell of freshly cut grass mingled with flowers and fresh air creates a summer time medley that not even the most talented of candle makers can accurately capture.

As a side note, when the wind blows from the south, the sweet smell of summer time is often masked by the putrid stench of dog food being made at the Purina plant a few miles away.  It makes me long for the smell of the pig farm just a mile from our house in the country, which smells decidedly better than freshly made dog food. 

So, if suburbia and the country are actually related, I would have to guess that they are second cousins twice removed and differ greatly in genetic material.  Having said that,  although my GPS shows me planted in the middle of suburbia's expansive grid of city streets and a large population, somehow, it never fails to remind me of it's distant cousin, the country, and home.