As a young girl growing up in Jal, New Mexico, in the '60s, I took for granted the fact that we knew all the neighbors. We not only knew the neighbors on our block, but behind us, down two blocks--come to think of it, we knew just about everyone in town. And as in all small towns, school functions and church socials provided all of us with a chance to get to know each other. We knew all our close neighbors' names, their children's names--even their dogs' and cats' names. Of course, most of the pets had the same name....."Damn Dog" and "Damn Cat"!

I frequently heard my daddy mumble something about "Damn Dog" keeping him awake all night or "Damn Dog" visiting the front lawn again. This name-calling began when we lived on 5th street, where our neighbors owned two English bulldogs. These dogs didn't bark or roam, but lordy, could they snore! They were collectively just called "Damn Dogs." Then we moved to 4th street and met "Damn Dog" number three, who lived right next door. Two of his primary functions in life were to howl at the moon and reprimand "Damn Cat", who frequently courted his feline girlfriend under my mom and dad's bedroom window.

"Damn Dog" number four lived a few doors down and took his morning stroll to our house, always leaving a 'deposit' in our front yard. He and my mother eventually became engaged in all-out war.She could be seen lurking behind a bush, still in her robe, hair askew, plotting her strategy on how she was going to attack as he made his morning visit. With a pistol grip water hose in hand, she would wait until the precise moment that he was about to do his "evil deed", and then.....charge! As much as he hated it, you would think that he would find another lawn, but he always came back; and most mornings my mother obliged him with a bath.

We were amazingly trusting of one another in this small town. This was apparent in the fact that no one ever locked their houses or cars at night. I remember leaving for two weeks to visit my grandparents and not bothering to lock the house. As a matter of fact, the front door didn't have a lock! Instead of worrying about being robbed, we would return to find the lawn had been mowed by a neighbor and newspapers were neatly stacked beside the porch. One of Webster's definitions of the word 'neighbor' is simply--fellowman. I like that...

The sounds of a small town are so peaceful. In the early morning, the raspy crowing of a far-away rooster announced the new day. The rickety old screen door with squeaky hinges would slam, and you could hear the popping sounds of mama shaking out a rug. Little girls squealed as they played hopscotch on the sidewalk. Little boys excitedly raced to the park to practice baseball. The echoed banging of a hammer reverberated in the air as someone fixed a fence or repaired shingles that had been damaged from yesterday's winds.

Lack of formal entertainment in our little town didn't seem to pose much of a problem. Most people were content to sit on their porches or lawns on warm summer evenings, exchanging gossip with their neighbors. Some owned televisions, but "the tube" had not yet become the central focus of their lives. Teenagers were content to pool their money to buy a dollar's worth of gas to "make the drag" a few hundred times from the D-Bar to the Milky Way drive-ins.

I've lived in Midland, Texas for almost nine years now, and I know one neighbor. Sad, isn't it? I miss the general camaraderie we all shared in our little town. There was a common ground that helped us face disparity together. A couple years ago (emulating my own mother's thoughtfulness) I took a cake to a neighbor who had just moved in next door.
The lady of the house looked shocked and suspicious. Funny, today we still don't call each other by name.

So many things are different today. But one thing is the same......"Damn Dog" still lives next door.