Had a word with my neighbor the other day. More about that in a minute. But the walk home reminded me how much the neighborhood has changed, and that it’s been changing for a century.

We live in Riverside Heights, north of downtown Tampa. A decade ago, the city vacated the never-used alley behind us, after residents who wanted the extra space petitioned the city council. The freebie came with a catch: Homeowners on either side must maintain their halves of the alley. All went fine until new neighbors moved in, and junk started flying over the fence — pieces of pipe and wood, tree branches, shelving, a dog crate, you name it. Hence, the walk to the neighbor’s.

He apologized and said, as a country boy, he figured dumping in an alley was fine. He wondered whether the junk pile had anything to do with the rats on his fence. Sensing he was losing his audience, he quickly offered to pick up the mess. No worries, I told him: Everything’s done; I’m just staying ahead of code enforcement. And by the way, your Christmas lights looked great.

Four of five Americans live in cities or suburbs. Cohabitating in any environment requires footwork at times. I’ve learned to play pretty good defense in recent years as my neighborhood, like many across Tampa Bay, has drawn new residents, bigger homes and more traffic, changing the rhythm and flavor of everyday living.

Alley Guy is fine; he thanked me for walking over and complaining to his face. But the inability to see beyond his property line is a sad comment about the state of group behavior. Another neighbor uses a leaf blower to hurl his yard waste on the driveway next door. A clown down the street fires bottle rockets at turkey vultures to keep these federally protected birds from pooping on his shed. More recently, residents have tapped “No Parking” signs into front yards where nobody parks, anyway. Alone, these are minor if head-shaking nuisances. Together, they shape the vibe of a neighborhood that has lost some connection.

Of all the changes that occur in our lives, perhaps none are more noticeable than those taking place in the places we return to every night. We bought our house in 1998. Riverside Heights was quieter then, a hodgepodge of bungalows, cottages, Mediterranean’s and the odd fourplex here and there. The small homes were perfect for many of the widows and childless couples who could get by on a single bathroom. You saw kids here at Halloween, when parents from across the river trucked them over for candy. Plymouth Park had oil drums for garbage cans and was so empty that people smoked pot along the tree line during the light of day, in plain view, invincible.

Today, the old homes are toppling like dominoes, making way for two- and three-story manors that are testaments to comfort and the concrete industry. Some of the newer homes are beautiful, embracing the original architecture of Riverside Heights, and built with scale, craftsmanship and quality materials. But others are glorified garages or paeans to design that belong on the dark side of the moon. Plymouth Park can be overrun now with unleashed dogs and pre-teens driving golf carts.

I’ve struggled to reconcile loving this neighborhood with wondering how much I can stand. But the walk home from Alley Guy brought perspective. The area’s growth could be trying, but it’s breathing new life into Riverside Heights. Morning runners now crowd once-empty streets. In the evenings, a parade of young couples pushes baby strollers to the riverbank. We still don’t get many trick-or-treaters, but only because Plymouth Park hosts hundreds of children and their families at a Halloween block party. The park has real garbage cans now, with liners the city collects, and the old pot smoking area is home to concerts and flea markets some Saturdays. A few years ago, the Labradoodles moved in.

Our house just turned 100. The same porch we sit on every night has stood through the Great Depression, a world war, the moon landing and the election of America’s first Black president. Along the way, it’s seen inventions that are still in use, from frozen food and television to the polio vaccine, masking tape and the smartphone. If my house could talk, it might say that change is continuity itself, and that in refashioning itself, Riverside Heights is doing what it’s always done. That’s good enough, I guess, if nothing else flies over the fence.