My Hood in the Woods

My Hood in the Woods

I live in what is classified as Bexar county, but is actually located between Pleasanton and San Antonio. My neighborhood is on the outskirts of a small town called Leming. Once you cross over a very narrow, yellow bridge you are on Old Pleasanton Rd. This road has a bad reputation for drugs and crime. Rumor has it that police officers won’t travel out here alone, there has to be at least two officers to a patrol car. Honestly, I’ve never seen a patrol vehicle at all. I live on a dirt road that branches off of Old Pleasanton Rd. (or O. P. for the locals). About three miles down a miserable road and a left down my five mile driveway you can spot my house. If you are familiar with my road then you know it by these directions: Past the crazy guy with the gun at the end of the road, continue past the yellow house, watch out for Buster’s tractor, swerve around Ms. Ally’s cows, avoid all the potholes, go past the weirdo with the cats, and for about three miles of loneliness you encounter my drive on the right hand side with the pipe fence.

Once you pass ghetto lane you are now on my parents fifty acre ranch. The land is vegetated with oak and mesquite trees. There are three man made tanks, one with a pier and stocked with catfish. The other tanks have canoes docked. There is a barn in the back full of horses, cows, chickens, basically all the farm animals. My house was built in the early nineties. It is a large two-story home with a wrap around porch and full balcony on the second floor. It reminds me of Forrest Gump’s house, but not quite as big. In my childhood room there is a huge oak tree sitting outside my balcony. As a child I used to wish I had somewhere to sneak off to, but nothing was nearby. The tree is perfect for climbing down. I just never had anywhere to climb. Now I have turned our pool house into my very own apartment, and I love it. We are secluded from our neighbors and from the description you might be able to understand why.

I like to think that we do not have neighbors, and technically where our home is located we don’t have any at all. When you get back on that long road that is where the “neighbors” live. One man was just admitted to the psychiatric ward for some problem. There is one family who is well put together and extremely nice. She is a school teacher and he is business man. They have two girls and two boys. I feel bad for them because they are located next to some bad people. Buster is the man with the tractor and since our road is a private road he paves it for free. My father owns a car dealership and my mother is a stay at home mom. They also have a kennel business on the side, breeding Miniature Schnauzers and English Bulldogs.

My father is Irish and my mother is Hispanic. My grandparents are Irish and live on the other end of the property in a cozy little cabin, built especially for them. We call it the “love shack”. Many of the people out here are Hispanic. I believe one family is white. Most of the families surrounding our ranch are hard workers, blue collar workers. Don’t get me wrong there are some of them who work really hard for what they have. I really don’t ;like my neighborhood, but I love our home and the serenity of our estate. Overall, it is a pretty decent place to live. There are a few run-down trailers on Old Pleasanton with trash in the yards and broken cars in the drive ways. Six miles down from our road there is a tiny over priced gas station. This is a two pump gas station, with milk for four dollars and ninety nine cents. Everyone goes to that particular gas station because the nearest grocery store is twenty minutes away.

My neighborhood may not be the prettiest scene in the world, but it is my neighborhood. Over the years I have found great appreciation for the things that I have in life. It has been a tremendous blessing. Our ranch is the one thing that holds our family together and brings peace to our lifestyles. The world is a chaotic place and it is important to have an escape, mine is my family’s ranch.

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