The Boy Who Lived Everywhere

I have begun referring to Malik (not his real name, pictured at left) as "The Boy Who Lives Everywhere," because he is what his own mother refers to as a "House Hopper." Malik lives in the house next door and is a very sweet, very polite first-grader, who is just as likely to be in my house on a Saturday afternoon as he is to be in his own, or in the house across the street, or the one next to that. Jeanette and I don't mind having him around, and are prone to ask him to stay for dinner more often than not.

Basically, what he does (and who can blame him for this, really?) is travel house to house, looking for the next best video game to play. He's got plenty of his own, but anyone with kids knows that as far as they're concerned, other people's toys are much more fun to play with than their own. In his way, Malik is a genius.


Malik crossed the line recently, however, when, as he was eating dinner with us, he said, "I sure would like to stay here and have a sleepover with Jackson and Diego. I'm going to go ask my mom."


"Slow down, cowboy," I said. "You forgot something important there, pal."


"What?" he asked.


"Well, we didn't invite you to stay over."


Malik and I shared a moment of silence, just kind of staring at each other. I think he was trying to determine whether or not I was serious. To lighten things a bit, I repeated, smiling this time, "Being invited is important, buddy. Your mom would agree." He smiled his gap-toothed smile, and said, "Yes, sir," a little dejected. I gave him a high five, and we enjoyed the rest of his visit that evening.

This led me back to my own childhood, living in a community that was then about the same age as our present community is now. There was a group of us kids, probably about eight to ten, in all, who routinely roamed the streets and back woods of our area. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, so our house was filled, on a regular basis, with any number of our little crew. We rode bikes and skateboards, and were an every-day presence on Hartford Lane and environs.

The experience with Malik brought back to mind the time my brother Mike was hanging around at his friend Jonathan's house one Saturday. I was in our kitchen at home, keeping my mother company as she prepared dinner, when the phone rang. I wasn't paying attention to the call, but suddenly my mother was beside herself with laughter. She couldn't speak, she was laughing so much. When she finally got it out, my father and I were laughing, too.

Apparently, it was Jonathan on the other end of the line. Six-year-old Jonathan Heller had taken it upon himself to pick up the phone and dial our number. When my mother answered, he very politely said, "Hello, Mrs. Fuchs. This is Jonathan. Don't you think it's about time Michael headed home for dinner?" She'd then done everything she could to contain herself as she sternly directed Michael to come right home, before breaking up completely.

My brother had clearly overstayed his welcome, and poor Jonathan felt his only recourse was to go to the ultimate authority -- my mother. We were -- all of us -- the Kids Who Lived Everywhere back then. As I think on it now, forty years after the fact, it feels like nostalgia to me. But then I look at Malik and am pleased that he is carrying on in our tradition. Sure, we overstayed our welcome from time to time, or invited ourselves over inappropriately. But we did it because we were reaching out to those who lived near us, and isn't that what being a "community" is all about?