For a while, I’ll admit, I wondered if my neighbor Larry remembered my name. I’ve walked past his house almost every day for about 18 years — first with my baby in the stroller or backpack, then with the kids on a trike or a scooter, and soon enough with a taller-than-me daughter walking along. Larry has very often been outside — mowing his grass, raking his leaves, or shoveling snow. (His yard is immaculate.) For 18 years, I’ve called out, “Hi, Larry!” And for 18 years, he’s cheerfully called back, but not with my name. Instead, his near-daily refrain has been, “Hey, neighbor!”
This is partly why I moved here. When first moving up from Brooklyn, the hilly countryside beckoned, but we bought a house in town on purpose. I knew how many bedrooms and bathrooms I wanted, but I also wanted a house with a front porch, a place where I could hang out on a mild evening and chat with folks strolling by. I wanted there to be folks strolling by. What I was looking for, in short, was a neighborhood. And I got it, by golly. I have multiple dear friends living within shouting distance of me. When I open the windows in spring, I hear the whir of people’s lawnmowers and the crack of baseball against bat down the street. I have borrowed and loaned countless cups of sugar. It’s all very Norman Rockwell.
Well, not always. A neighborhood is a complicated thing, since it’s made up of people, and people have … quirks. One neighbor has said approximately 18 words to me in the 18 years that I’ve lived here and smiled at me approximately zero times. And frankly, many people who live on my street are people I have never seen. I assume those houses have residents, but I can’t say so with authority. When new folks move to my street, I try to make a point of dropping off a small plate of cookies or a bouquet of flowers; no one did that for me when I moved in, and I wanted to make the neighborhood feel more … neighborly.
But a sense of community is more than a plate of cookies or a bouquet of flowers on the doorstep. It’s about sharing responsibility in bone-deep ways. What makes a neighbor neighborly? How about when the taciturn man down the street, the one who hasn’t smiled at me in 18 years, gets his flu shot? He is protecting himself, but he is also protecting me, and the woman down the street on chemo. When that same unsmiling, wordless guy meticulously shovels out the sidewalk in front of his house, making sure it’s wide enough for a person in a wheelchair to pass, he’s looking out for neighbors he may never meet. Living in a community means showing up for each other in deeper ways. It was only last year that I actually put rocking chairs on my porch and began sitting out there on a summer evening. But it turns out that long before I did that, I felt connected to the people around me in an abstract way, even to the faceless people who (I assume) live down the street.
Several years ago, there was a series of arson fires in our neighborhood, and everyone was on edge. It was a moment when people could have turned on each other in fear and suspicion, but instead we all flicked on our porch lights and began helping each other stay alert and safe. Even in less dire moments, a kind of mutual protectiveness has been one of my favorite things about living on my street. “Don’t forget to close your garage door,” the sweet young woman who lives across the street messaged me on Facebook. This is the same woman who parks in another neighbor’s driveway during snow emergencies because they have room in their driveway, and no one likes being towed. But it’s also because we all make a habit of looking out for each other when the going gets tough — a massive snowstorm, a power outage, fires. Neighbors, like family members, are not people we choose. They are people we end up with, and regardless of how tricky individual personalities are, we learn to get along — and even to appreciate one another’s quirks. And, also like family, we show up for each other. Even if we don’t always say hi or drop off flowers.
Still, I love how Larry calls out to me every time I walk past. I know for a fact that he does, indeed, remember my name. But he always refers to me as “neighbor,” much as one might refer to a family member as “aunt” or “grandpa”; an honorific, if you will. Maybe it’s even honor.
Naomi Shulman’s work has appeared in many publications including The New York Times, The Washington Post and Yankee Magazine, as well as on NEPR and WBUR. Follow her on Twitter: @naomishulman.