I live in a very quite neighborhood. The interaction I have with my neighbors is limited to polite waves to each other from our cars or a quick “how ya doin’?” while getting the mail. Needless to say, I really don’t know most of their names. Over the past four years of living here, I have made up my own little names for the folks that live around me. I have dubbed the middle-aged woman that walks her dog by my house twice a day “The Poodle Lady”. My next door neighbors are known as “The Heinekens” because of the mounds of empty beer cans in their recycle bins each week. Across the street lives “David” just because he looks like a friends cousin of the same name. I would bet money that my neighbors know me as “that blonde girl” or the lady that drives a Honda. To an outsider it may seem that we are a bunch of shut-ins that barely speak to one another, but I would beg to differ. There is a feeling of an unspoken commitment that we are looking out for each other. During the holidays there were a series of break-ins that occurred in the neighborhood. Several folks came to the aid of the victims and we all communicated openly to make sure everyone was aware of the danger. I believe that each of my neighbors, up and down the street enjoy living here. I know I could borrow a tool or a cup of sugar from “The Heinekens” or even ask “The Poodle Lady” to pick up my mail. Even though I don’t know their real names, I wouldn’t trade my neighbors for anything.