When I moved to the suburbs last year, a lot more changed than the length of my commute. This particular suburb is part of the far-north spread of the urban zone, so there are still significant reminders of the rural life that once was. Born a city dweller, my daughter noticed the difference immediately: driving on the highway one day, there was a residential development on the left and a farm on the right; she immediately remarked, "That side is the world, and the other side is the country."
In my search for every commuter's Holy Grail---a drive of less than 30 minutes in traffic hell---I have traveled many roads in the last 6 months. Lately, I have been trying an alternate route during my morning drive, one that definitely has the "world" (Starbucks, Exxon, 7-Eleven) on the left, with a remnant of "country" on the right: TRAILER CITY.
Notice I did not say Trailer PARK. Most of the trailer parks I am familiar with are like giant parking lots with grass, each trailer assigned to a particular section of the space. Trailer CITY has regular streets, just like my master-planned community. Trailers are neatly aligned to these streets, creating a very grid-like layout for several blocks.
The trailers themselves are in various conditions. Some are the usual dirty white, with metal screen doors and broken-down cars on blocks in the yard. Others have adopted real house "drag:" they are completely clad in brick or wood, with large attached decks and porches, covered carports even. Most of the trailers would be assigned to an in-between status; they have minor signs of a homestead---window boxes or satellite dishes, maybe---but no attempt has been made to even hide the wheels or guts with the typical trailer-skirt.
Because of the timing of my usual drive, I rarely see the citizens of Trailer City. From time to time, I try this route in the evening, where very occasionally I have seen people randomly moving around the homes.
One mild winter evening, I saw a whole family heading over to the Trailer City playground. This playground is not the usual 'safety-first' arrangement found in most city parks and million-dollar backyards: no rubber gravel or woodchips on the ground here, Trailer City kids will hit same the hard-packed red dirt I remember from my youth (should they dare to leap from the top of the rusted monkeybars or tilt-prone swingset found here). The weather was great, twilight still provided enough illumination to play (no lights on this playground, of course), and bathtime was probably still at least an hour away. The kids raced to the swingset, shrieking their child-laughter.
I slowed for a minute, watching, then coasted back to the intersection. Red light, headlight, grocery store, turn lane: back to and through the world again to home.