225BatonRouge.com

They’re coming out of the woodwork with glee in their eyes and schadenfreude in their hearts.

They’re friends and relatives who’ve long lived in suburbia, and they’re smiling because they see me coming, even though I swore I’d never become one of them—a suburban statistic, a fuel-guzzling part of the problem.

Well, it’s 2006, and I’ve become Suburban Guy. Packed up the family and moved to edge of the ’burbs. My transformation has been fast and complete. Within a week of arriving, I’ve turned into a suburban cliché. I’ve already accompanied my wife to shop for drapes, upgraded from my beloved, clunky vintage speakers to tiny surround-sound jobs, bought tools from Sears, harrumphed while reading about break-ins in the neighborhood newsletter, and spent more than just a few minutes imagining a more powerful garage door motor.

Yep, I’ll fit right in. Tom Annoyington, reporting for suburban duty, clogging your roads, voting against taxes, using up resources.

All I need now is a pair of Bermuda shorts, some dark socks and an oversized grill spatula. “Hon’, the burgers are almost done!” I’ll call out from the patio. “Want your buns toasted?”

And to think I once believed I’d always be Urban Guy. I lived in old houses, shopped at old businesses, and my commute took about four minutes.

Most recently my family lived in Capital Heights. Our home there had character, with hearty cypress woodwork and a front porch for visiting. Our three-year-old would squat among the twigs and leaves in search of insects, utterly oblivious to the hulking, century-old oak shading her.

Our neighbors were a warm, eclectic mixture of long-timers, newcomers, landscapers, lawyers, store managers, state workers, retired nurses, jack-of-all-traders and immigrants. Our common ground was the ground. We lived where decades of lives unfolded, and we were lucky enough to know neighbors who told us our block’s history.

Now, our young daughter is older than every house on our street.

When we moved away, our good neighbors soothed our sadness by making us feel appreciated and missed. Out in newburbia, our storage Pod wasn’t even hauled away yet when new neighbors started trickling by, offering welcome warmth: the sweet Venezuelan family sharing with us about their own home turf thousands of miles away, a widow and artist who brought us king cake on moving day, the friend from around the corner who brought yet another.

The street may seem stark and tree-less, but it already has a warmth all its own.

And who knows, maybe one day our daughter will tell future new neighbors the stories of how this street came to be, and maybe even comfort them when they move away.

Tom Guarisco is editor of 225 magazine. He spent his childhood in Scotland, where “a wee blether” is simply a little chat.