The neighborhoods in which we live will often reveal details about our character, whether it be the determination shown through the height of the first tree you climbed as a young child or the wasp’s nest by your neighbor’s garage that taught you to cope with pain.

When people ask where I live I often tell them ‘between Green Shutters and Tom Thumb’. These restaurants act as landmarks. When one lives between two places that both seem to embody the spirit of summer with their hot dogs, ice cream sundaes, and cold diet Cokes, it’s no surprise that I was born in July. On one of the red picnic benches at Green Shutters my nickname is carved as a way to say ‘I was here! I exist in this world!”.

Between the two restaurants, but much closer to Tom Thumb than to Green Shutters is Fire Lane 5. This bumpy road goes on for about a quarter of a mile and requires four wheel drive in these harsh New York winters that we experience. It leads down a hill to the lake front. Either side of the lane is surrounded by forests that I wasn’t supposed to play in when I was younger but I did anyways.

The lane splits and in the center is an island of grass. Tied to a tree on this island is a makeshift jump rope. It was here that I was taught  that old rhyme ‘Cinderella dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss her fella… By mistake she kissed a snake!’. As a kid, this was just a silly song, but as I’ve gotten older I realise how easy it is for a girl to kiss one of these ‘snakes’ by mistake. It was also on this island where I played wiffle ball with the neighboring children, I always hit foul balls into the woods, no matter how hard I tried to make them go straight.
  At the bottom of the lane is a cul de sac connecting three houses, one white residence in between two brown pied a terres that blend in amidst the surrounding trees and foliage. My abode, in the middle, was built 100 years ago by a prison warden. Like my home I am hidden and rather plain looking, but with an old soul. The original concrete stairway that led from the house to the beach, which is now long gone, was built by prison labor and because of this I used to tell girls who slept over that my house was haunted by the ghosts of Edwardian era prisoners. My house isn’t the home of ghosts unless you were to consider me a spirit and it my haunt.

I used to spend many summer afternoons playing at the next door neighbor's house. However, to get there I had to pass a wasp’s nest by their garage. As afraid as I was I had to be brave in order to protect my younger sister who was even more petrified than I was of getting stung.

The three homes are all built on a hill that bows down to the lake. Our beach is filled with pebbles my mother bought to fill the area but, no matter how much care we give it, weeds always spring up between the rocks. Weeds, like most unwanted things, are hard to free yourself of. The lake water has always been cold, but as a child, I never perceived the iciness that I do now when I swim. Maybe as children we’re just blind to all of  the bad things in life and we just don’t see them until we have matured.

My neighbors only reside in their homes in the summer so for the other three seasons my house is rather isolated. Ironically, I am most isolated in the summer when I’m away from school, as I’ve never been able to quite master how to be a magnetizing person who can get others to have interest in them
when I can’t offer them notes or homework help.

There is a pine tree on the edge of my lawn with branches perfectly spaced for climbing. It drips sap and has an aroma like that of Christmas. This was the first tree I climbed. The tree’s massive height showed the determination in my young spirit even though I only made it halfway to its peak.

In less than a year I’ll be leaving the confines of the neighborhood that I call home. It will become just another thing of my past like fairytales and Barbie dolls. The neighborhood I grew up in reveals details about my character but only to someone with a keen eye.