Far from the cookie-cutter suburbia stereotype, the nook I live on in the West 7th Street area in Reno is made up of decades worth of mish-mash styles, quirks, and oddities of endearing charm. There is a great lack of any news of historical significance for the area, save for the few collision reports and garage sale advertisements in the newspaper archives; a quiet ‘burb indeed. While it is not the oldest neighborhood in the Biggest Little City nor the most well-known, many of the residents have lived here for decades and have done so with a fondness that shows.
Reno finds its beginnings as the preferred crossing point for travelers meandering the Truckee River. Established officially in 1868, the city gained notoriety then for its lax gambling laws and attracting “divorce tourists”. Reno grew in population, and continues to change with rapid pace — as places tend to. The streets of this particular neighborhood however somehow showcase both modernity and 60s traditionalism, with freckles of styles in between.
Moving to this cozy neighborhood in the Spring of 2022 was exciting for me — I’d never lived in one place for too long, and had only lived in apartments since moving here to attend the university. Now, I lived in an actual house, with a chimney and a yard and creaks in the floorboards and birds that nested in the patio overhang.
The first thing I’d noticed on move-in day was the street names — posted on most were names like Margaret, Sandra, Barbara, or Greta. Who these women were, or if they were real for that matter, I still haven’t found out. The second thing I noticed was the amount of flags that decorated most of the homes; American, Nevada, LGBTQ+, Back the Blue, to name a few, showcasing the diverse range of values held within each home.
As you make your way from Sandra to Barbara, you’ll see, on the left corner, a house with not one but two flags: the first being the American, while the second has images and colors that change — seemingly by themselves — depending on the nearest holiday. I have yet to see a major holiday go by unflagged.
Sean and Angela are an exceptionally friendly couple who live just up the street from me. I’d met them for the first time during their yearly yard sale, a name too modest for the neighborhood-renowned business they run from their front yard every summer.
“Angela! Hannah’s here!” Sean screams this as he sees me approach. He is standing on a ladder, his upper-half engulfed in the branches of a white pine, a tree Sean tells me has been there since Angela was a girl.
“This house was bought in ’62. Angela grew up here. She’s seen the neighborhood go through lots of changes.”
“I’ve known most everyone on the street my whole life,” Angela confirms. “Good people.”
I’ve caught Sean in the middle of hanging up several large bird feeders, a task he does happily every spring. “Listen. Do you hear that?” He refers to the birds’ excited chirping; they know food isn’t far. “Isn’t that the best sound? The Sierra Nevadas are just the best for birds.” He tells me about a particularly troublesome woodpecker that returns every year, known as the Downy woodpecker. I ask if this could be why the street that runs into Barbara is called Downey.
Sean shrugs. “No clue.”
He shares with me what joy the birds bring to him and Angela, and about the time one landed on his shoulder, and how certain birds will even stay near the home throughout the winter. “It’s just been a far-out experience.”
In a neighborhood that seems to be forgotten by the news — or at least the internet’s archives — lives a quiet, cozy idiosyncrasy of styles, a consequence of the residents’ long-term stays, and their fondness for the area.