Community Living

Since I was 17, I found myself moving every three to four years. Because of this, I had never settled into some place with the idea that it was permanent. I didn’t plant anything in the ground or paint a wall or upgrade an appliance. I was okay with this because it felt beyond my capability anyway. I didn’t have the tools or the knowledge to do anything more complex than changing a lightbulb. Not only did I not settle into the house, I never got to know my neighbors. It was unlikely I had even met my neighbors in the half dozen places I lived since college. Without kids or a dog, it feels harder to get out and accidentally meet people. This has led to some rather embarrassing situations. In one instance there was a man that would regularly wave as I ran by. It was never a halfhearted hand raised in acknowledgement of my existence but more of a vigorous motion of his entire arm associated with a wide smile. I should have taken the clue. Instead, I was always confused by this stranger’s enthusiasm for my running but appreciated his encouragement.

When a man walked up to me at work and asked how far I usually ran each day, I looked at him with surprise.

“How do you know I run?”

“I see you running in the neighborhood.” He said this with the same tone that one might state other obvious facts like the grass is green and water is wet.

I failed to connect this man in nursing scrubs with the person in cargo shorts and t shirt several doors down. I had accidentally given the man the impression that I recognized him each time. I tried to play it off, but I am a writer and not an actress. He seemed profoundly disappointed when it was clear I had no idea who he was. The only thing that saved me from not looking like a complete asshole is that I am culturally conditioned to wave back to perfect strangers to demonstrate that despite my obsessive running I am not a psychopath, just oblivious.

I aspired to change when I finally bought a house in 2020. While shopping for a home, I had only considered square footage, convenience to the running path and whether I could park the camper. Things like quality school districts and demographics never occurred to me as such details had never been something I had much control over as a renter. Cheap and available had been the priorities when renting, both qualities that are often followed up with advertisements highlighting double locks and window bars in the description. Still, this time I imagined things would be different. On my to do list was painting the laundry room, buying a fridge and getting to know my neighbors. The last proved to be more difficult than I expected.

Had I bought in the neighborhood just one street north, meeting people might not have been so difficult. That neighborhood is full of kids riding bikes, couples walking their dogs and mothers paired with strollers. They are out in the morning and again in the evening. This is a group young enough to have the energy to decorate not just for Christmas and Halloween but also for the minor holidays like Valentine’s and Fourth of July. My biggest risk in that neighborhood is getting run over by a school bus. Perhaps as a child free adult I wasn’t a great fit but the real problem with that neighborhood is that they have an HOA with opinions on everything from paint color to lawn signs. I come with an adorable camper but as far as they were concerned, it made me trailer trash.

By comparison, it is not a stretch to say that the neighborhood I ended up in one street over is geriatric. The average house is about 50 to 60 years old. Fifty years ago, I am sure this was a prestigious neighborhood. The lots are good sized with homes that would have been large for the era. Based on my observations, my neighbors bought when they graduated from high school and never left. We don’t have an HOA. There is no need. The shrubbery was designed to be low maintenance, so weeds are tolerated. There are no fines for loud music because everyone can just turn off their hearing aids. No one is risking their final few years doing something as frivolous as holiday lights. It is basically a nursing home with a tremendous amount of landscaping.

Like going to a gym at the same time frequently, it is always the same assortment of characters walking in the mornings. There is the tall women with her perfectly white hair raised up in a bun. She walks with a cane and always gives me a sour look as I go by. I imagined she was an English teacher that handed out a lot of detention for running in the halls. I probably give her PTSD. There is a couple with the elaborate stroller for their small dog and two more dogs with matching raincoats and leashes. Their pride is evident. They always turn around and head the other way when they see me coming. I bet they hate their grandchildren and the dogs will be inheriting everything. There is the couple that never walks together. He is always ahead, easily outpacing his wife with longs strides. The wife walks rapidly behind, never catching up but always talking. I am sure the space between them isn’t an accident. Then there is the elderly man that one day simply stopped and fell backward. Concerned I ran to him and offered my professional expertise. That being I offered to call 911. He refused to even tell me where he lived and insisted on walking home by himself. All I wanted was a neighborly hello. These were tough nuts to crack. I am vain enough to wonder if they even notice me but how do you miss the half-dressed woman running around and waving like she is in a one-woman parade?

The most distinguished of the two dozen or so walkers is the Wizard who is the friendliest of the bunch. This man is short stature, but age has bent him further. He has a giant nose, a beard and walks with a stick that is taller than he is. He is always wearing bright red pants and red beret with a yellow reflective vest. He dresses to be seen because he is quite deaf and nearly blind. He will wave occasionally but I must be within ten feet for him to notice me. This is to be expected when you are 500 years old.

I’m years into this experiment and I still do not know anyone’s name. I can only guess at who they are and the lives they live. I admit this is my own doing. It is hard to have much of a conversation in two seconds as I trot past. My running only serves to highlight the generation gap between us. I am a baby in their midst. Still, I feel this strange longing to be included in this morning ritual. This is my neighborhood, too. In my head I imagine the conversations we could have.

Really, I want to say, I have so much to offer. No, I can’t cook or even keep a plant alive, but I am an unending supply of free medical advice. Tell me again about your knee surgery.

Alas, the only person I know is the man who lives across the street. Our acquaintance is no thanks to me. He is a retired policeman and I am sure he was a good one. He is hands down the nosiest person I have ever met. No conversation goes by that I do not get grilled about where I have been or where I am going. I walk away wondering if I have implicated myself in a crime and if I should have had a lawyer present.

There is nothing that happens that he does not have an opinion on. Add on a porch and he wants to know when I am doing the driveway. Brick the driveway and he tells me I need to work on the landscaping. When not serving as the unofficial HOA president, he works security. The moment a car enters the driveway I have a notification from him before Amazon reaches my door. He is concerned I don’t have enough cameras up. But why spend so much money on cameras when he and his German Shephard check every door and window while I am gone?

I feel a little bad because the man is basically stuck at home with nothing to do but monitor my house. His wife is ill and he is unable to leave but for the briefest periods of time. It is like having a bored bomb sniffing dog. A whiff of trouble sends him into a frenzy. I occasionally give him tasks like pulling in my garbage cans or checking the mail just to give him purpose. This is a man that cares deeply about his wife and neighbors. The awkward part of this is if he were 40 years younger, he might be joining ICE. I feel so conflicted. If I only get one neighbor, I couldn’t ask for a better one. This is the problem with seeing someone as more than their ideology.

As a child free adult, perhaps I would not have fit into the neighborhood to the north with the endless parade of kids. As a working slave I do not fit into the retirement community I find myself in. There is no perfect neighborhood but I take for granted I live in a safe community where I can run. The only anxieties I have are not for the usual reasons of my own safety. I worry when I don’t see one of the regulars. No one is under 75 and death seems imminent. I do not know their names, but I care about these people. I have seen their faces and I believe in their humanity. For this reason, perhaps it is best that I don’t know them at all.

In another 30 years I imagine I will join the Wizard on his morning walk. He will introduce me to all these people. He will recount the bitter battles between neighbors over fence lines and garbage cans. From their comments, t-shirts, and flags, I will finally learn that we have a political difference of opinion. This is the problem with getting to know your neighbors. Sometimes you discover that you don’t like them at all. Unlike the paint color or the appliances, they are impossible to change. Eventually I will learn to scowl, turn the other way and walk on by.