Perched atop the mesa overlooking Grantville, Talmadge is an early automobile suburb nestled between Kensington to the west and the College Area to the east. It contours the canyon’s edge, and though it was once on the suburban fringe when first developed in the 1920s, Talmadge now sits firmly within the greater urban core. On the cusp of this urban-suburban divide, the neighborhood hums with a euphony of sounds that evoke both the idyllic past it once represented and the complex present it has grown into.

Stepping out onto the porch with Coco, I look to my right to see a group of older women starting their days (or maybe that happened hours ago). They chirp hello how are you before continuing on their morning walk. Walking past the rapid flutters of hungry hummingbirds fighting over their nectar and the creaky wooden gate, we head north towards the pitcher plant shaped loop that lines the canyon.

A string of densely packed homes, all shaped in the eclectic styles of early 20th century California: Spanish Revival, Minimal Traditional, and the occasional Streamline Moderne line the canyon rim, blocking the wave-like roar of the expressways below. The modest setbacks and narrow sidewalks allow walkers the pleasure of experiencing life behind closed doors: in one home, talking heads on the TV inform us of yet another disappointing development from the administration, in another, a couple discusses their plans to landscape their front yard, and in another, the muted yapping of a tiny dog that sensed our presence. A mourning dove coos above.

With winter come the coyote yelps; with spring, the buzzing of bees. On warm summer afternoons, all one hears is the wind whipping through the towering eucalyptus, occasionally broken up by the screech of the Red Tailed Hawk. As fall returns, so does the chatter of high school students and sparrows. Though the seasons of the San Diego chaparral eschew much of the rest of the world’s rhythm, their subtle patterns still unfold.

The sun sets over the Kensington hills to the west, beaming golden rays over those who spill onto the street for their final walk of the day. Talmadge fills with Hi how do you dos, giggling children on their bikes, the occasional dog, barking madly at another across the street, begging to play.

And soon thereafter, the neighborhood is at rest, and the blanket warmth of the setting sun gives way to a landscape dotted with historic streetlights. The medley of daytime sounds quiets into a nighttime symphony of crickets, punctuated by the distant hoot of a Great Horned Owl or the booming blades of a police helicopter overhead. As we round the corner back home, another sound joins the mix—wafting from an open window, a soft piano plays The Days of Wine and Roses:

The days of wine and roses laugh and run away like a child at play
Through a meadow land toward a closing door
A door marked “nevermore” that wasn’t there before

The lonely night discloses just a passing breeze filled with memories
Of the golden smile that introduced me to
The days of wine and roses and you

The lonely night discloses just a passing breeze filled with memories
Of the golden laugh that introduced me to
The days of wine and roses and you