Welcome to the neighborhood

When I moved in to my husband’s house, I became a full-fledged member of a community I knew nothing about. The house we live in has been in my dear husband’s (DH) family since his grandparents lived there. When we were dating, I scouted out the important stuff: the grocery store, the gas station, the drug store and, of course, the ” title=”Lambada”>Lambada lessons in their homes in the afternoons.

There are very few Jewish families in our neighborhood – at one time, when Lawrence Welk was on the air, there were more.

Last week, a yellow newsletter appeared in our mailbox informing us that everyone in our area was invited to a Neighborhood Association meeting. I had never been to one, so I had different vision in my head of what to expect.

I had a flash to the tenants meeting I remember seeing on “” title=”Little House on the Prairie”>Little House on the Prairie” where everyone would gather at the church and Mrs. Oleson would gossip and scowl.

So this week, we went to the meeting – at a church. Big crosses. Hymn books. The whole-nine yards. The neighbors who came were very nice … and informative. It was like having our own Mrs Oleson, except without the scowl.

We learned all about disaster preparedness – emergency kits and what to do in the event of a natural disaster (fun stuff, right). The entire time the fire department rep was talking, DH kept leaned over to me and whispering: “we need that, we should do that, we have to have that.”

I looked at him and said: “You do know the odds of an 8.0 quake hitting in the next five minutes are really slim.”

Then the subject came up of