Until I was almost 14, I lived on a dead-end street in a south Arkansas town not far from the Louisiana border.

In my neighborhood, as I remember it, there were 24 houses — a dozen on each side of the street. Everyone knew each other, neighbors were often seen talking in each other’s yards or visiting each other’s homes, and if you quantified the cups of borrowed flour and sugar passed around our street when I lived there, you could probably start your own bakery.

Not everyone on the street got along all the time, but there was a sense of community and mutual aid that extended from bringing soup to sick neighbors to buying whatever nonsense the kids were selling for the school fundraiser.

About a year ago, Amelia, the kids and I traveled through that little town headed back to Starkville. I drove them down the old street, where I could still name who lived in all but four of the houses at the time I was there. Of the four I couldn’t, one was a transient rental house, one was occupied by folks at the dead end who had several mean dogs, and the other two belonged to people I was always simply told, “kept to themselves,” which I understood as code for “Do not approach.”

Which brings me to Wednesday, when I got a rare knock on my front door in Starkville.

I answered to a man who looked vaguely familiar wishing us a belated Merry Christmas and offering as gifts a bag of cookies and a plastic vessel of homemade pumpkin juice “like in Harry Potter.” He did not introduce himself.

There was a Bible verse included with the cookie bag. Was he with a church? Better yet, was he with our church? Between traveling and illness, we haven’t been in a while.

Was this man coming by to thank us for voting for Brandon Presley? The last two strangers who knocked on our door were volunteers asking us to, which gives you a sense of how often this happens.

Normally, I would play this off with, “Oh, thanks! Great to see you.” But given the homemadeness of the gifts, I felt I needed to know their origin. Trying to think of a slick way to inquire, I instead went with the bluntest and most awkward.

“And who are you again?”

He identified himself, reminded me he and his family live two houses down and that we share a landlord — my in-laws who live next door to us and own a handful of properties on the street. I had briefly met the guy once a while back.

“Oh yeah! It is good to see you again. Hope y’all are well,” I managed, half-embarrassed. Then I thanked him for the gifts. After he left, I asked Amelia, “They’ve been in that house less than a year, right?”

Evidently, they’ve lived there at least four years.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I’m a terrible neighbor. There are several people on my street who have lived there for at least a couple of years whom I’ve never met — much less know their names.

Obviously, I know my in-laws. Beyond that, I’m on a “I know their names and speak when I see them” basis with the folks who live in two of the houses across from ours.

The other longtime neighbors we knew pretty well moved a couple of years back, and the new owners made the house into an Airbnb. I’ve only met one of their short-term tenants, and the police were also there at the time (I like Bob Seger as much as the next guy, but it was 1 a.m.).

Have I become one of those strange people who “keeps to himself?” Maybe, but surely that’s not all there is to it. I’d argue the social character of our neighborhood, and really neighborhoods generally, seems to have changed in recent years.

Our neighborhood is on a through-street, not a dead end or a cul de sac. That could play a part. Or maybe, some of this is generational. My in-laws know a good bit about everyone on our street, whether their renters or otherwise, because they take the time to learn. Everyone else, pretty well, is between 25 and 50.

The pandemic also is a culprit. Before COVID, we knew most of our neighbors, and it was still fairly common to see folks catching up outside. I’ve found socializing to be less organic, and frankly less valuable, since the pandemic. I doubt I’m alone in that.

There’s also social media, which allows you to curate your spaces and group associations from your phone or computer, basing “creating community” less on proximity.

This, like everything else associated with social media, can be both good and bad.

My family has talked lately about New Year’s resolutions, and think I’ll resolve in 2024 to be a better neighbor. There are obviously some good folks on our street, like the fellow who came by Wednesday. I guess I can join the fray.

And for what it’s worth, the cookies and pumpkin juice were really good and much appreciated.

Zack Plair is the managing editor for The Dispatch.

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