It's a Silent Day in the Neighborhood

It’s hardly a novel observation that the concept of the American Neighborhood, at least in metropolitan areas, has changed dramatically in the past generation. Merely cultural evolution, I suppose. My family lives on a one-block street in north Baltimore, with 10 or so houses, and, gun to head, I’d be a dead duck if forced to recite the names of even half the neighbors. We spent an hour or so at a quite grand Christmas Eve party six weeks ago, hosted by the couple who live next door, and at one point I was engaged in conversation with a whimsical elderly man—a retired financier and lifelong Baltimorean who expressed regrets that he chose the pursuit of wealth instead of becoming an artist—who was the guest of my friend Norm. Of course, “friend” is a relative term, for as Norm said in introducing me to the fellow, “Russ and I wave at each other on the occasions we’re fetching the newspapers at the same time in the morning.”