Hi, Neighbor

My neighbors down the street had a big party the other day. I was in my backyard gardening when I heard a few people laughing. A few minutes later, I heard a lot of people laughing. The crowd had assembled. Oh joy. Where do I begin? The honk-honk of clown horns. Drumming on what I felt certain was a junior set. Laughing. Giggling. Singing. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G…’’ one kid sang, while another burst into tears. Who knows why? Maybe she/he dropped her/his cake on the ground. The birthday fest lasted all day. I was in heaven. I never wanted it to end.

Most of us live on top of each other on the East Side. Houses here were built a century or so ago when zoning regulations didn’t exist – or maybe were ignored. That’s why you can reach out from your kitchen window and touch your neighbor’s kitchen window. That’s why houses share driveways. That’s why a sliver of land on the side of your house is a sliver of land on your neighbor’s side of the house. Share and share alike.

With this reality, it’s crucial to get along. People who don’t like living close to others in cramped quarters shouldn’t reside here. Those folks should think about Seekonk, where the hills run high and you can find a family homestead far from the madding crowd.

Which brings me to a former neighbor, whom I shall call Alice. The details: Fifteen years ago, on a sun-splashed day in August, we moved into our house. Our sons were babies. I met Alice one day over our picket fence. Over the years, we’d chat now and then, but I was busy taking care of two toddlers and our conversations were brief.

Then the boys grew up and started playing baseball - T-ball, AA, AAA, sandlot. Our yard is too small for a game, but fine for throwing. One day, my husband and kids were playing catch in the backyard playing and someone from the trio misfired. The ball soared into Alice’s yard. Oops. It was a Rawlings, a fine ball.

Rather than knocking on Alice’s door, my husband instructed one of my sons to scurry through an opening in the fence to Alice’s yard and retrieve the ball. He did. Alice’s husband came rushing out of his house, warning us to stay off his property. In all fairness, he was right. Someone should have knocked. But a kid sneaking into a neighbor’s yard to get a wayward baseball is fairly harmless, and maybe even a bit charming. Countless film directors seem to think so, too.
From there, things went downhill fast. Baseballs turned into basketballs, which Alice refused to throw back over the fence, despite our pleadings. Instead, she kept them. Once, a friend’s basketball disappeared into Alice’s yard. It was brand new. The friend’s father wanted it back. He knocked on her door and, with the help of the police, retrieved another basketball, a soccer ball, three baseballs and a Frisbee.

Noise bugged her too. She didn’t like the sound of kids hanging out in the yard, horsing around in the way that young boys do. To convey her displeasure, she would crank up her radio to a tacky AM station and sit on a bench in the yard staring at the kids until they felt so self-conscious they went inside.
Some things on the East Side annoy me. I don’t like floodlights or loud music. I don’t want to hear a TV or a car alarm. Leaf blowers should be banned. Ditto for chainsaws that cut down our spready trees. But I love the sounds of life – a crying baby, a yapping dog, the soft chatter on a summer evening. The evening applause from the Brown soccer field is soothing.

Why is it that some people mark off their property with tall fortress-like fences and others welcome the neighbor’s wispy forsythia visiting from the other side? Why is it that some turn their porch lights off on Halloween and others greet the pirates and princesses with pumpkins and bowls of Kit Kats? All the unexpected surprises and hustle-bustle remind me that the journey starts anew every day. All is not lost. There’s reason to hope.

Elizabeth Rau can be reached at erau1@verizon.net.