A Not-so-Ordinary Neighborhood

Normal, everyday neighborhoods have freshly painted, white picket fences lining the front yards. Patios with grills and picnic tables with red, white and blue umbrellas. The aroma of tangy barbecue and juicy hot dogs drifting through the street. Front porches with rocking chairs and swings, graced with comfy pillow, a welcome invitation to come over and chat for a while.!" Huge potter ferns hanging from the porch's ceiling, creating a tame, closed in jungle. Tall, inviting glasses of ice cold lemonade and a platter of still warm chocolate chip cookies sitting on a nearby table, waiting to refresh and replenish. Clotheslines hanging in the backyard, decorated with colorful crazy quilts, tattered blue jeans and mismatched socks, flapping like carefree butterflies in the warm breeze. Old rundown junk cars, perched on jacks in the middle of driveways patiently waiting to relive their glory days.
My neighborhood is far from ordinary. It has something that other neighborhoods do not. My neighborhood has a guardrail.
This guardrail is old, silver and rusted. It leans slightly from its original stance, having been 'on duty' for many long years. Holes at one end reveal unusual patterns when the mid-morning sunlight shines through. An afterthought of a dated construction project, cutting off a road that had never been built. Located at the end of the subdivision's main road, it serves many purposes to any 10-year-old's childhood.
Guardrails are for leaning on while watching the neighbor kids play baseball in the field across the street. In the muggy evenings, swatting mosquitoes and screaming cheering when your team makes a home run. For sitting on in the humid summer afternoons, licking the last of a cherry Popsicle, the cold, sticky red juice dribbling down your hand. For being 'home base' in a neighborhood-wide game of tag, breathlessly making it back just in time. For "One last game!" of Hide-and-Seek, as parents wait impatiently, watching flashlights flicker across the yard, like frantic fireflies. For being the community bulletin board, advertising the 'Annual Neighborhood-Wide Yard Sale', Missing Dog', Free Kittens to Good Home' and 'Car For Sale-Cheap'.
Guardrails are for standing and waving goodbye in the chilly autumn air, as the school bus pulls out of the neighborhood, the children's faces pressed to the window, catching one last glimpse of Mommy blowing kisses. The changing fall foliage littering the ground with vibrant bursts of yellows, reds and browns. Fathers rushing to their cars, hot coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other, off to another day at work.
The sturdy guardrail is a solid bulwark in the mountainous snow fort that everyone pitches in to build. Protecting against snowballs sailing over your head and the other team's surprise attack. The dads standing by, arms folded, swapping stories of their snow forts. For gathering around to sing Christmas carols, belting out 'Joy to the World', 'Away in a Manger' and 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' in an off key, yet melodious chorus. Snowflakes quietly falling and landing on eyelashes and children's tongues. For drinking hot chocolate and spicy apple cider, shivering, whispering and giggling about last minute Christmas presents. For trudging back through the winter wonderland, echoes of "Merry Christmas!" and "Keep warm!" sending you back home to a warm, crackling fire, as the multi-colored Christmas light flickering and casting rainbows on the snow-capped front lawns, surround the home with joy and peace.
Guardrails are also for sitting on, watching the moving vans slowly back out of the driveway, leaving an empty shell of a house, a heart, a life behind. For absently tracing the rusty holes made by years of corrosion, especially the ones shaped like a heart. The one where you and your best neighbor friend stuck your fingers in and promised never to move. the guardrail, however, remains faithfully planted, unmoving and unchanging.
For posing against, as your parents snap pictures of your family, the fragrance of the spring wildflowers float around you and your loved ones, like a gentle hug as the evening ends. As you are tucked into bed, covers pulled up to your chin, the starts knowingly twinkle through the window and the moon shines down on the neighborhood, reflecting off the guardrail and lends a soft, silver sheen to the quiet night. You dream of the sunny days and happy memories in your not-so-ordinary neighborhood. Because every ordinary neighborhood should have a guardrail.

Summary: The Homestead on a Rainy Mountain Creek

In his short story "The Homestead on a Rainy Mountain Creek", N. Scott Momaday discusses his lifestyle in the town of Mountain View and his experiences with the Kiowa people. He describes the house he lived in as a child and how he was born in a tepee close by while the family's house was still under construction.
Momaday also describes his grandfather Mammedaty, who was a respected and successful farmer. Even though his grandfather died a year after Momaday was born, he felt like he knew him all his life, though stories told about Mammedaty. In the same way, Momaday notes about his grandmother, who governed over the household with 'great generosity and goodwill.' Interestingly, his grandmother passed away during the time of the writing of The Way to Rainy Mountain and in that, he retraced the route of the Kiowa people from Montana to Oklahoma, ending at his grandmother's grave.
Curiously, his parents are rarely mention, signifying the importance of the role his grandparents played in his life and the values they instilled in him.