I grew up in San Diego County, first in two neighborhoods of Clairemont and then in Solana Beach when I started high school. All three of our houses were tract homes, built in the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, respectively. Each tract had a name, as did, of course, our streets, so in high school, I lived on Sun Valley Road, in Santa Fe Hills, in Solana Beach.
Our house was on a corner lot bordered by two golf courses, and in the evenings, my dad and I would walk our dogs through the neighborhood. Santa Fe Hills was built in phases, so we’d walk from one phase to another, each in progressive stages of maturity. Our street was completely landscaped, every house occupied with families who had been there a couple of years. Then we’d reach streets in the next phase — some houses were occupied, some weren't, the yards spotted with fledgling bushes and plants, trying to look established. A few blocks later, model homes were furnished and pristine, but everything else was empty and expectant, waiting to be claimed by their first owners. Because there were a finite number of floor plans in Santa Fe Hills, you could tell at a glance if a particular house was the three-bedroom with the atrium entryway, like our neighbors’, or the four-bedroom with two bedrooms on each side, like ours.
We’d peek into each house as we passed, gauging the progress of the construction or assessing the decorating decisions of families who just moved in. Dusk was prime time, for lights were turned on but not all curtains drawn. Especially along the edge of the golf course, we'd see living rooms with their lamps glowing and families sitting down to dinner. One December evening, we saw two different families decorating their Christmas trees.