I love my neighborhood. We chose it because it very much suits us. Our house is 85 years old and nestled in the middle of a neighborhood in which most houses are even older. Every early evening in the summer, I take little Paris, our pug mascot on a walk and every early evening I am reminded that I just never learn. Every neighborhood has “that house”. The house you avoid. Why don’t I avoid? Morbid fascination perhaps?

Still, I like my little trek, and it’s foolish to avoid a house because of a bunch of children, even if they are strange. The house where quiver full of peasant dress wearin’, speech impediment talkin’, flower frolickin’, 1900 House livin’, Quaker vibe projecting children of the corn reside. It’s riduclous that I would have to change my favorite route just to avoid their non-television viewin’ asses. So, I start out in hopes that I might get lucky and they aren’t playing with wooden trucks and handmade dolls in their yard as they often are, complete with their uneven, home manicured haircuts.

No such luck.

Out they run and ask me the same thing, “Can I pet your dog? What kind of dog is that? Does she always look sad?”

“Just pet the damn dog,” I think to myself, “We’ve been over these questions over and over during the last year and the answers are still all the same.”

I have perfectd the in-and-out with these strange kids, so long as the Little House on the Prairie mother doesn’t come out and decide to make my stroll a homeschooling lesson. I say quickly, “Okay, you pet her already. Bye.”

Today was different though. It was Sunday, and instead of their cotton, flowery, ankle length dresses, they were wearing long velvet dresses and the boys were not with the girls today. As I scurried off and turned the corner, I hear the tapping of patent leather shoes behind me. I turn around and it’s one of the younger girls. A basket of petals in one hand, a basket of pamphlets in the other.

“Oh, shit,” I say to myself, “Don’t tell me…”.

The little girl, blonde hair and blue eyes says in her sweet little munchkin voice, “I have something for you. We want you to go to heaven.” She hands me the pamphlet and says, “God bless you. I really want you to go to heaven.”

I open the pamphlet and it reads…

There are four things you must believe:

I. You have sinned

II. The penalty for sin is death & hell

(Great. Why the hell should I go any further??? Garbage can anyone?)

III. Jesus died to pay for our sins

(Okay, drumroll please….)

IV. Jesus invites you to be saved today!

Then, get this, there is a little place for your name, address and phone number in which declare yourself as accepting that Jesus died for your sins and you’re now born again.

Shit. My neighborhood rules! How many suburban neighborhoods can you get accosted by God’s children in prairie dresses?? They will for sure grow up knowing how to make a good meal for their man, and I’m quite certain they are already in training on how to keep several steps behind the men in their lives.

And I was missin’ city life. Ha!

Okay, tomorrow, I have to find another route.

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