Posted by Elizabeth
I open my gunmetal mailbox and slide the thin envelope out, knowing immediately the contents of the letter. I’ve been holding my breath for this moment for months, but reading the words, which glare at me in stark black and white, still manage to rattle me.
During a routine compliance inspection, it was discovered that your lawn is dead. You have seven days to replace your lawn.
Maikael and I have long struggled to keep our lawn alive during these hot desert summers. Once a lush carpet of emerald, year by year we have slowly decimated the small patch of grass that curls around our front yard. It’s not for lack of trying. Each spring we fight a noble battle against the persistent fists of clover that insist on spreading their empire. Each summer we watch the green blades turn to sticks of papery straw, despite our efforts to provide enough water in this drought-plagued region. Each fall we promise we’ll do better next year.
But this year was different. With everything happening at once, the lawn took a backseat to the more pressing and important projects in our life. “You can’t do everything,” I insisted. “We all have to make choices.” But living in a neighborhood of perfectly coiffed lawns, thanks largely to the battalions of yard care services that troop in and out of our small community on a daily basis, I knew deep down our drooping lawn would draw unwanted attention.
I can’t help but feel stung by the letter, tangible proof that, after living in this house for six years, we don‘t know our neighbors and they don’t know us. The truth is that we only interact with our neighbors when a problem arises. I’d like to believe that anyone who knew our present circumstances – madly using our leisure hours to finish a do-it-yourself home remodel project in the waning weeks before our baby is due – would have exercised more compassion and empathy. I’d like to believe that our neighbors would come and talk to us, rather than hide behind the almighty powers of the homeowner’s association, if they were unhappy. But because we live in our cloisters, we are simply an anonymous sad lawn, not the people who live behind it.
This experience has prompted me to ask myself, what does it mean to be a good neighbor in today’s world? Growing up, my neighborhood was a sturdy web of connections. I was part of a ragtag band of children that marauded through our suburban streets, traipsing in and out of each other’s homes, stopping for snacks wherever we happened to be when hunger struck. When it was dinnertime, my parents would lean out the back door and ring a giant brass bell that could be heard anywhere in the neighborhood, a siren song that told me it was time to come home.
Our next-door neighbors were The Rants’, a lovely family of four who moved to the cool and rainy Pacific Northwest from the parched California desert. Jack was a minister and his wife Pam played the harp, a gold specimen that stood proudly in a corner of their living room, making an appearance each December at their Christmas open house. Their daughter, Melissa, was a year older than I, their son, Brian, a year younger. We fed each other’s pets and picked up one another’s mail during vacations. We ate dinner at each other’s homes every so often. Although our family wasn’t religious, we often attended Christmas and Easter services at their church. My dad helped Jack fell a tree in his backyard, and when Jack presided over my great-grandmother’s minuscule funeral, their family of four comprised half of the party. Even though we weren’t the best of friends, we were neighbors in the truest sense of the word: people, thrown together by circumstances, who looked out for one another.
Times have changed. I’m sure the neighborhoods of my youth are still out there – you might be lucky enough to live in one yourself – but I also recognize that our worlds, and therefore our relationships, aren’t what they used to be. I know I am not alone in saying that I live in a neighborhood where people work exceedingly long hours and spend their precious few off-hours indoors: a walk down my street on a balmy summer evening offers pure, eerie silence. In today’s break-neck world, with people barely able to maintain connections with their closest friends and family, how can we be expected to make time for our neighbors, those people who are only a part of our lives due to a random lottery of proximity?
But I don’t think we need to host one another to dinner parties to be good neighbors in today’s world. In fact, I would argue that it’s because of the permanence of our circumstances that we all try a little harder to make the most of these relationships that aren’t going away until the moving vans come. The neighborly bond is a unique one; even given modern constraints, it’s a relationship worth cultivating. In a time marked by increasing social isolation, our neighbors offer us an opportunity to connect face-to-face. We need not apply the same rules of neighborly love of yesteryear, but create new ones for a different world.
Here are a few ideas I’ve been considering:
- Learn the names of the neighbors you live in closest proximity to. Greet them by name, or simply wave and say “hello,” when you see them on the street.
- When someone new moves into the neighborhood, make a point to introduce yourself.
- Get to know your neighbors, even casually, before a problem arises. When problems do arise, it’s easier to handle the dilemma face-to-face rather than calling upon the authorities to resolve the matter. Stronger relationships are generally built through direct conflict resolution. Use “the powers that be” as a last resort.
- When you receive a piece of mail for a neighbor, take the opportunity to knock on their door and introduce yourself, rather than simply dropping the mail on the doorstep and running.
- If you see that someone is struggling and needs help, offer it.
- Consider starting an annual tradition that brings the neighborhood together. My friend, Nikki, used to deliver May Day baskets to her neighbors. In our neighborhood, houses place luminarias in their yard on Christmas Eve. These small gestures build community.
My grandfather’s small funeral last week was attended almost entirely by family, except for one small group of people: his neighbors.
What’s your neighborhood like? Have you ever been reported by your homeowner’s association? What other practical suggestions do you have for rewriting your relationship to your neighbors in these hectic modern times?
“While I won’t be writing about life in pencil during the next four weeks, I will be intensely focused on living life in pencil. As the website slumbers I will be learning how to take on the challenges of motherhood, one day at a time. Not only will I be learning the logistics of my new life, from mastering midnight feedings to gaining competency in the art of diaper changing (it’s true: I’ve never changed a diaper), I will be learning the less tangible aspects of stepping into a new role. Cultivating a new identity takes time and energy, and I want to give my full attention to the important work of mothering that lies ahead. I want to savor these early days as I get to know my daughter, to fully absorb the lessons that she has to teach me. When I return in October, I hope to share my insights – hopefully deepened – about what it means to live life in pencil. Until then, I wish all of our dear readers a month filled with their own growth and development, no matter how big or how small.”
It probably goes without saying, but my September will look quite a bit different than Elizabeth’s. Nonetheless, it feels an important time for me to take a step back, and channel my energy into some new experiences, and exciting challenges. September marks the start of the school year—a time I move at full throttle. Students return. I train my staff. There are ‘welcome picnics’, and a welcome coolness in the air. And this year—for the first time in a few years—I’ll add teaching back to my professional life. This is an experience I’ve been wanting, and for which I’m now discovering some pent-up nerves. I’ll attempt to wade through those nerves, and all the feelings of incompetence. And I’ll ride the rush of excitement I find when standing in front of a classroom, hoping to connect with college minds. Wish me luck.”
