That's not supposed to happen here

Whenever we talk about bad things happening, a lot of times it feels like it always happens to other people in other places far removed from you. It's always someone else, somewhere else. You hear about it, make the appropriate sad noises you're supposed to make when you hear of it, and then you move on.

Last week, while it was still someone else the somewhere else had come home to roost. Last week, in the middle of the afternoon in a perfectly safe and tranquil suburban neighborhood with families and kids, there was a drive-by shooting at the house next door to mine.

That's not supposed to happen here.

Has the neighborhood changed? Apparently more than I though it had.

It just got me thinking about things that I take for granted—like my safety in my own house and on my own block. While I'm grateful that no one was hurt in the whole incident, the face that one of the four bullets that hit the house next door ended up going through a wall, into the fridge, and then into the bedroom of the downstairs apartment.

If they'd actually been home at the time someone could have gotten hurt, badly hurt. And it was only a few yards away from my den!

I mean, I can always think back to the winter when someone decided that my car was a good target for a baseball bat—and one broken rear window later—but that was a random act of violence. It had been happening in several communities, cities, towns. It wasn't just at home. My car was just one hapless victim.

But a drive-by shooting is a tad bit more personal, don't you think?

So, am I more observant? Oh yeah. Do I hurry inside just in case? Yes. Do I wonder when it will happen again? Most definitely.

But the fact that I have to worry makes me sad. It used to be such a nice place to live.