Irony, when only Maples, Pines, and other indigenous trees formed the canopies above, and not a single Cedar. Along the branches of these canopies, gravity was no obstacle for the squirrels that proved their acrobatic potential.

Birds perched at every tree top, and flew around with bliss, as if having taken flight for the first time. Cardinals and Blue Jays combated around every fountain, creating a visual masterpiece as their contrasting colors painted the sky.

Every neighbor owned a garden, which during the spring and summer, produced a fresh smelling blend of newly budded flowers and vegetation.

Beautiful colorful butterflies flew amidst these newly sprouted gardens, as if they lacked a sense of direction.

About a mile downhill, the sky opened up to the Long Island Sound. I never heard its waves from my home, but on occasion, a salt water breeze would find its way to my nostrils.

Clean, colorful, middle class homes, comfortably filled the street. Each home was unique and clearly distinctive from the next. On a nice day, when the sun would come out from behind the clouds, individuals of all ages would venture outdoors and tend to their gardens, or mingle with others.

Friday evening, my father would sometimes drive me to the dock to admire the sunset. He would place a soda in my hand as he tuned into our favorite and most humorous radio broadcaster, “The WigMaster.” We would dwell in the tranquil memories of our week as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

It was hard to imagine that I would have left such a sacred place one day. Yet, no matter where I live, or how far I travel, Cedar Drive is my home; the one place that naturally nurtured my maturing self, and assisted in the development of my conscience.