They seem so innocent, like children at my neighborhood day-care center in Atlanta.
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In my neighborhood, every Italian-American woman with any pride started the gravy by breakfast so it would be ready for Sunday dinner at 2 p.m.
Two summers ago, a truckload of Beijing municipal workers turned up in my neighborhood and began unspooling heavy-duty black power lines, which they attached to our houses, in preparation for a campaign to replace coal-burning furnaces with electric radiators.
As an adult, I have seen few trick-or-treaters in my own neighborhood, and assumed that parents had decided it was too dangerous to let their children go door-to-door.
Armed with this youthinator, I began running every night through the streets of my Los Angeles hilly neighborhood listening to - gasp - oldies.
"I came here because they've just trashed my neighborhood, " Battersea resident and clean-up volunteer Jilly Bruce, 40, said.
And that's why my Office of Faith-Based and Neighborhood Partnerships has been working so hard since I announced it here last year.
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Suddenly it seemed that all the well-to-do parents in my neighborhood were carting their kids around in this crossover SUV instead of the minivans and large SUVs they had once favored.
Posts in my neighborhood included restaurant recommendations, local gardening tips, nanny-share offers and a post asking for landscaping recommendations.
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Walking past the Greek tailor in my neighborhood, I felt the need to extol the old-world version of social networking, which is all about schmoozing without any electronic devices or urgency.
The fact that I lived in a terraced house in the inner-city neighborhood of Hackney was a flimsy obstacle to my true path.
For example, my agency is helping first-time home buyers with down payment assistance funds through the Neighborhood Stabilization Program (NSP).
In 1997, here in Nashville, my boyfriend Chris Fletcher and I bought a house in a Mayberry-for-eccentrics-type neighborhood.
My family settled into a no-tell motel in a forgotten part of downtown Vicksburg, a neighborhood teetering between antebellum charm and hopeless decay.
How exactly were you planning to trim the 60-foot oak that fell in my back yard, snapping the power lines feeding our neighborhood?
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Strolling in the neighborhood one day, newspaper tucked under my arm, I passed a man, stooped but dignified in a three-piece suit, shuffling in the same direction.
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