Good Fences Make Good Neighbors
It's not like I'm a voyeur or anything. I've just got this thing about seeing cozy lamplight through a window at night and the people moving and living within; something about it makes it seem as if we are all friends, that I could just walk up and knock on the kitchen door and be welcomed in for a cup of coffee. But my nearest neighbor has just unwittingly slammed the door on my toes instead. She put blinds on all her windows, and she keeps them closed all day and all night. Periodically they raise one blind to dangle crookedly a few inches above the sill so the dog can see out. She used to have sweet little cafe curtains. You couldn't see anything, just a silhouette of her head now and then as she bustled around in the kitchen. Walking by in the early evening, you might have seen her husband through the kitchen door working on his computer at the bar.
Now, every time I look out my sliding glass door, I'm jarred by the sight of her blinds. It's like living in a gated "community." Years ago, Scott and I lived with in a friend's house in a sub-division while we were moving our house and waiting for the occupational license (long story, but a good one). The houses were perfectly arranged on a cul-de-sac, far too close together. If you looked out any of the windows on either side, you were met by a blank wall, or perhaps one broken by a blinded window.
I can't imagine living in my house with the blinds closed, dark and isolated. I'd rather look out on a parked car and a compost heap; even the thought of a totally covered window makes me itch with claustrophobia. I pine all summer for open windows, comforting myself with the knowledge that at least I have a view of life outside. I mean, we have wood (like) blinds only because the blank windows didn't look right. We do close the ones in our bedroom at night in the vain hope that Conner will be fooled into sleeping past 6:30 or 7. One of the first things she does upon rising (besides bouncing gleefully on our heads) is go to the blinds for me to open them.
I don't know if any of you have read Home From Nowhere by James Kunstler; it's rather an old book now, but much of what he said has come to pass. As he recommended, I live in a neighborhood - or at least a place that used to be a neighborhood and still clings to the remnants of community life. There’s some diversity here. There are houses in my neighborhood from every decade of the 1900s. Mine was built in 1956 or 1957 (I get confused, my in-laws' house a mile away was built in the other year, whichever one that is). The library, City Hall, several parks, some shopping, restaurants, etc., are all within walking distance. There are widows in two of the houses across from us, several families with children on the block, elderly couples, some middle aged empty nesters, a few single people or young couples renting garage apartments or living in one of the two duplexes at the end of the street. There is a kindergarten a block and a half away supported only by students who live close enough to walk. A good proportion of the children are black and there are students of East European, Asian, and Middle Eastern descent as well. It is my understanding that the parents are quite involved; the school is known to be a very good school. My children will probably attend there unless it is ruined by the demands of our state’s testing, though we plan to homeschool for the years after elementary. My husband helps out several of our elderly neighbors when he sees they need a hand; our neighbor with the blinds does the same. One of the neighbors down the street takes care of almost all the lawns on the block. One neighbor brings gifts for the girls on their birthdays and for Christmas and Halloween. When none of us had power for a couple of weeks due to a hurricane, a guy down the street made coffee on his gas stove and offered it to any of us who were lucky enough to walk by; both of our next door neighbors offered to let us run an electric cord from their generators.
I read a story to my children, I Know a Lady by Charlotte Zolotow. It reminds me of at least 5 people in the neighborhood I lived in most of my middle childhood and adolescence. I want that for them here and am working to do my part in bringing it about. And I want to be that lady, the one with cookies and apple cider, that the children know welcomes them.
Now, every time I look out my sliding glass door, I'm jarred by the sight of her blinds. It's like living in a gated "community." Years ago, Scott and I lived with in a friend's house in a sub-division while we were moving our house and waiting for the occupational license (long story, but a good one). The houses were perfectly arranged on a cul-de-sac, far too close together. If you looked out any of the windows on either side, you were met by a blank wall, or perhaps one broken by a blinded window.
I can't imagine living in my house with the blinds closed, dark and isolated. I'd rather look out on a parked car and a compost heap; even the thought of a totally covered window makes me itch with claustrophobia. I pine all summer for open windows, comforting myself with the knowledge that at least I have a view of life outside. I mean, we have wood (like) blinds only because the blank windows didn't look right. We do close the ones in our bedroom at night in the vain hope that Conner will be fooled into sleeping past 6:30 or 7. One of the first things she does upon rising (besides bouncing gleefully on our heads) is go to the blinds for me to open them.
I don't know if any of you have read Home From Nowhere by James Kunstler; it's rather an old book now, but much of what he said has come to pass. As he recommended, I live in a neighborhood - or at least a place that used to be a neighborhood and still clings to the remnants of community life. There’s some diversity here. There are houses in my neighborhood from every decade of the 1900s. Mine was built in 1956 or 1957 (I get confused, my in-laws' house a mile away was built in the other year, whichever one that is). The library, City Hall, several parks, some shopping, restaurants, etc., are all within walking distance. There are widows in two of the houses across from us, several families with children on the block, elderly couples, some middle aged empty nesters, a few single people or young couples renting garage apartments or living in one of the two duplexes at the end of the street. There is a kindergarten a block and a half away supported only by students who live close enough to walk. A good proportion of the children are black and there are students of East European, Asian, and Middle Eastern descent as well. It is my understanding that the parents are quite involved; the school is known to be a very good school. My children will probably attend there unless it is ruined by the demands of our state’s testing, though we plan to homeschool for the years after elementary. My husband helps out several of our elderly neighbors when he sees they need a hand; our neighbor with the blinds does the same. One of the neighbors down the street takes care of almost all the lawns on the block. One neighbor brings gifts for the girls on their birthdays and for Christmas and Halloween. When none of us had power for a couple of weeks due to a hurricane, a guy down the street made coffee on his gas stove and offered it to any of us who were lucky enough to walk by; both of our next door neighbors offered to let us run an electric cord from their generators.
I read a story to my children, I Know a Lady by Charlotte Zolotow. It reminds me of at least 5 people in the neighborhood I lived in most of my middle childhood and adolescence. I want that for them here and am working to do my part in bringing it about. And I want to be that lady, the one with cookies and apple cider, that the children know welcomes them.
posted by Shannon at 11:28 PM
3 Comments:
Ahh, a sense of place, of home, of community. That sure is disappearing. Our nation's adults are locked away inside, blinds drawn in all likely-hood, watching reality tv, singing and dancing contests. Our kids are in front of their multiple virtual communities on myspace or some such website...what will the future look like when we rarely see another human in a casual social setting or in what was once called a neighborhood? Walking (or, more appropriately, driving) outside will only occur when we need to visit the mega-super-store or eat at the multi-national corporate chain assembly line food factory that has successful convinced everyone that they are a "neighborhood" place. Those same stores and restaurants that have demolished, or at least helped along the dismantling of, a community filled with shopkeepers and those whose passions weere aligned with their job titles. Oh great, now I am in a swell mood.
We aways have our curtains open. We often forget to close them in the evening too. The lady across the street could probably tell you what we had for dinner last night.
Closed blinds scream "go away". And, like you, I get claustrophobic in dark, curtained rooms (shades of the past, with all those blankets over the windows -- remember?)
Like you, I love my neighborhood. And I think our neighborhoods are our best chance at building a civil and caring society. On this small scale, we can offer each other coffee in a storm or rides to the doctor. Maybe those communes of the '60s weren't such a bad idea. I have this idea that my friends should buy up all the houses being marketed on my street. Then as we get into our doddering years, we'll have a support network just down the block. Truth is, when you look at what my neighbors did while I was sick, I don't need my best friends living nearby to have support. My daily walking partner took care of my house, my mail, my plants. Other neighbors wrote me and called me and, when I got home, did grocery shopping for me and bought me hats to decorate my bald pate. The sweetness and kindness of it makes my heart swell. I hope you tell your blinded neighbors that you miss the sight and comfort of them puttering in the evening light. Maybe they'll open the venetian barrier.
mom
Post a Comment
<< Home