I didn’t expect it. But I suppose none of us do.

One afternoon, a neighbor knocked on my door asking if I remembered the name of the old bakery that used to sit where the new smoothie place is now. I laughed, rattled off not only the name, but the owner's daughter, their holiday pies, and the exact shade of green that storefront used to be.

And just like that—I realized: I’d become the neighborhood historian.

It wasn’t an official title. Nobody hands you a plaque. But somehow, over time, you become the person who remembers who used to live in that blue house, what the park looked like before the new trail, and when the city finally repaved that one street that ate tires for breakfast.

There’s something sacred about being the one who remembers. Not because you're old—but because you stayed. You noticed. You cared.

In neighborhoods like ours, it’s easy to get swept up in what’s next—new construction, new faces, new everything. But community isn’t just built with plans and permits. It’s built with stories. With people who say, “I remember when…”

So if you’re the one who holds the memory, lean in. Share it. Pass it on. Our neighborhoods need anchors just as much as they need change.

So my fellow gray hairs, let your lovelight shine! You might be the reason someone else feels at home.

P.S. Next week marks the fifth edition of my monthly community newsletter, “Beyond the Neighborhood.” If you’ve been meaning to check it out—now’s a great time. It’s all about people, place, and the heart of what makes community work.