City of Orange: feel the night

The best part about the tiny room that I rent for $650 a month is that I've got a door that leads directly to a suitable backyard with a lawn and a patio and a grill and some flowers and an abandoned shed and everything.
Tonight I was inspired to step outside and take in the moonlight, but as soon as I walked out the door all I could hear was the roar of a jet engine overhead. The cool night air was only slightly less stuffy than inside. As far as moonlight, there was none. A few gauzy stars shone meekly, as if through a sky of dirty glass and the entire horizon was still glowing like a 24-hour gas station, the eternal, dusty halo of endless miles upon miles of freeways, minimarts and midcity sprawl.
This is one of the quaintest houses on the city's sleepiest street. It was built so long ago that there are no washer/dryer hook-ups, no air-conditioning, no washing machine, hardly anything that could smog up the sky. I feel the original floorboards individually creak under the carpet when I do sit-ups in the mornings. This house has been on the planet at least twice as long as I have.
I wonder if there was ever a time when it wasn't surrounded by solid city from ocean to desert. I wonder if this town ever felt more like a real neighborhood than an anachronism. I wonder how long it has been since you could step into the backyard and still feel the night.